3.2.^.2-/ 


LIBRARY  OF  THE  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


PRINCETON,  N.  J. 


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Division 


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EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED   POETS. 


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EVENINGS 


WITH     THE 


SACRED    POETS 


A    SERIES    OF    QUIET    TALKS    ABOUT    THE    SINGERS 
AND    THEIR    SONGS. 


FREDERICK    SAUNDERS, 

AUTHOR   OF   "SALAD    FOR   THE   SOLITARY    AND   THE    SOCIAL,* 
"pastime    papers,"    ETC. 


REVISED    AND   ENLARGED. 


NEW    YORK: 

ANSON    D.    F.    RANDOLPH    AND    COMPANY, 

900  Broadway,  Cor.  2oth  Street. 


Copyright,  1885, 
By  Anson  D.  F.  Randolph  and  Company. 


jantbrrBftD  lOrtSB : 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cahbridob. 


PREFACE. 


THIS  work  has  not  only  been  revised  throughout, 
but  enlarged  by  the  addition  of  two  new  chap- 
ters, continuing  the  work  to  the  present  time.  These 
chapters  comprise  many  poetic  gems  from  our  modern 
sacred  anthology,  including  some  recent  fugitive  poems 
of  grace  and  beauty. 

The  scope  of  the  work  is  wide-spread  and  compre- 
hensive, and  presents  in  a  succinct  form  the  essence  of 
much  that  is  most  interesting,  in  anecdote  and  historic 
illustration,  referring  to  the  sacred  poetry  and  hymnol- 
ogy  of  the  Christian  ages.  The  notes  and  incidents 
relating  to  poet  or  poem  are  enriched  and  illuminated 
with  brief  yet  brilliant  inspiration-bursts  of  holy  song. 

There  are,  in  this  loud,  stunning  tide 

Of  human  care  and  crime, 
With  whom  the  melodies  abide 

Of  th'  everlasting  chime  ; 
Who  carry  music  in  their  heart 
Through  dusky  lane  and  wrangling  mart, 
Plying  their  daily  task  with  busier  feet 
Because  their  secret  souls  a  holy  strain  repeat* 

All,  therefore,  who  delight  in  the  Muse  of  Zion  will 
scarcely   fail   to    be   charmed    with    the    exaltation   of 


Vi  PREFACE. 

feeling,  religious  fervor,  and  rare  spiritual  beauty  that 
characterize  these  choice  poems.  In  the  preparation 
of  a  work  like  the  present,  extending  over  such  wide 
historic  distances,  and  comprising  such  an  accumula- 
tion of  facts  and  citations,  occasionally  from  obscure 
times  and  sources,  it  is  almost  too  much  to  expect 
that  it  should  be  wholly  free  from  inaccuracies ;  should 
any  be  found,  they  must  solicit  the  indulgence  of  the 
reader. 

In  concluding  these  preliminary  lines,  acknowledg- 
ment of  obligations  is  made  to  the  many  eminent  writers 
whose  valuable  productions  have  been  consulted,  and 
from  which  citations  have  been  chosen,  in  the  compila- 
tion of  this  volume.  References  to  these  authorities  are 
noted  where  the  extracts  appear;  but,  should  in  any 
instance  this  be  found  to  be  omitted,  it  is  hoped  that 
the  neglect  will  be  kindly  attributed  to  accident. 


SERIES    OF    EVENINGS. 


Page 

I.    Biblical,  Greek,  and  Early  Latin 1 1 

II.    Medieval  Latin 43 

III.  German  Reformation  Era 8i 

IV.  German  Thirty  Years'  War 121 

V.    Swedish,  French,  Spanish,  etc i77 

VI.    Early  English 219 

VII.    Later  English 271 

VIII.    Later  English  {Concluded) 333 

IX.    Modern  English  and  American 395 

X.    Modern  English  and  American  {Conchided)  .     .  439 

XI.    Recent  American  and  English 481 

XII.    Recent  American  and  English  (Concluded)     .    •  5^3 

Index  of  Names 5^9 


J  ET  those  who  will,  hang  j-apturously  der 

The  flowing  eloquence  of  Plato's  page ; 
Repeat,  with  flashing  eye,  the  sounds  that  pour 

From  Homer's  verse,  as  with  a  torrenfs  rage: 

Let  those  who  list,  ask  Tally  to  assuage 
Wild  hearts  with  high-wrought  periods,  and  restore 

The  reign  of  rhetoric ;  or  maxims  sage 
Winnow  from  Seneca's  sejitentious  lore  : 
Not  these,  but  Judah's  hallowed  bards,  to  me 
Are  dear,  —  Isaiah's  noble  energy, 

The  temperate  grief  of  Job,  the  artless  strain 
Of  Ruth  and  pastoral  Amos,  the  high  songs 
Of  David,  and  the  tale  of  Joseph'' s  wrongs,  — 

Simply  pathetic,  eloquently  plain  I 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Verb. 


f 


-^^^B^^^f^^^^ 


FIRST   EVENING. 


BIBLICAL,   GREEK,  AND   EARLY  LATIN. 


FIRST    EVENING. 


BIBLICAL,   GREEK,  AND   EARLY  LATIN, 

nPHE  Divine  Oracles  are  the  fountain -source  of 
-^  sacred  song.  "  The  golden  conception  of  a 
Paradise  is  the  poet's  guiding  thought ;  the  bright 
idea,  which  has  left  its  glow  among  the  traditions  of 
Eastern  and  Western  nations  in  many  mythical  forms, 
presents  itself  in  the  Mosaic  books  in  the  form  of  sub- 
stantial history  ;  and  the  conception,  as  such,  is  entirely 
biblical."*  While  poetry  had  thus  its  birthplace  in 
Palestine,  where  the  aspects  of  nature  are  so  emi- 
nently sublime  and  suggestive,  her  earliest  priest- 
hood—  the  patriarchal  seers  and  prophets  —  were  also 
endowed  with  a  Divine  inspiration.  Need  we  wonder, 
therefore,  that  the  loftiest  strains  of  poesy  to  which 
the  world  has  ever  listened  should  be  the  Hebrew,  or 
that  its  themes  and  utterances  should  immeasurably 
transcend  in  grandeur  and  sublimity  the  highest 
achievements  of  the  Attic  muse  ?  An  eloquent  writer  f 
has  remarked,  that  "  the  Bible  is  a  mass  of  beautiful 
figures  :  its  words  and  thoughts  are  alike  poetical.  It 
has  gathered  around  its  central  truths  all  natural 
beauty  and  interest :  it  is  a  temple  with  one  altar  and 
one  God,  illuminated  by  a  thousand  varied  lights  and 
studded  ornaments.     It  has  substantially  but  one  dec- 

•  Isaac  Taylor.  t  Gilfillan. 


12  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

laration  to  make,  but  it  utters  it  in  the  voices  of  crea- 
tion !  "  Well  might  Mrs.  Browning  ask,  "  Has  not 
love  a  deeper  mystery  than  wisdom,  and  a  more  in- 
effable lustre  than  power?"  It  is  this  great  burden  of 
the  Bible  —  "God  is  love"  —  that  renders  it,  alike,  so 
inestimable  a  treasure,  and  so  unapproachably  glo- 
rious. Of  the  Hebrew  lyrics  enshrined  in  the  sacred 
volume,  the  oldest  is  the  song  of  Lamech  :  the  next  — 
most  imposing,  perhaps  —  is  that  by  the  great  lawgiver, 
"  chanted  on  the  shores  of  the  Red  Sea,  with  a  nation 
for  its  chorus  ; "  and  that  triumphant  shout  of  victory 
—  symbolic  of  the  Divine  intervention  for  the  spiritual 
rescue  of  humanity  —  has  ever  since  been  reverberat- 
ing, in  sweetest  echoes,  athwart  the  ages.  No  less 
noteworthy  are  the  songs  of  Deborah,  of  Balaam,  of 
Hannah,  and  of  Job.  For  grandeur  of  conception, 
majesty  of  diction,  and  force  of  imagery,  where  shall 
we  find  poetry  to  equal  many  passages  in  the  four  last 
chapters  of  the  record  of  the  patriarch  of  Uz  ? 
Throughout  the  prophetic  writings,  are  there  not  also 
to  be  found  marvellous  bursts  of  poetic  inspiration,  of 
rare  beauty  and  power?  The  Proverbs  are  an  illus- 
tration of  the  didactic  form  of  Hebrew  poetry;  the 
book  of  Ruth,  of  the  pastoral ;  and  that  of  Esther,  of 
the  dramatic.  The  Song  of  Solomon,  so  replete  with 
Oriental  hyperbole,  is  amongst  the  most  eminently 
poetic  of  the  Sacred  Scriptures.  What  glowing  beauty 
and  exquisite  music  mingle  in  its  invocation  to  Spring  : 

Lo  1  the  winter  is  past, 

Tlie  rain  is  over  and  gone  ; 

The  flowers  appear  on  the  earth  ; 

The  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  is  come, 

And  the  voice  of  the  turtle 

Is  heard  in  our  land. 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  1 3 

David's  lamentation  over  Jonathan  is  a  beautiful  illus- 
tration of  the  rhetoric  of  grief.  Again,  what  can  equal 
that  wonderful  description  of  the  decline  of  life,  in 
Ecclesiastes?  — 

When  the  keepers  of  the  house  shall  tremble, 
And  the  strong  men  shall  bow  themselves, 
And  the  grinders  shall  cease  because  they  are  few, 
And  those  that  look  out  of  the  windows  be  darkened. 

Of  the  sublime  and  grand,  the  following  burst  from 
Isaiah  is  a  beautiful  example  :  — 

Who  hath  measured  the  waters 
In  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 
And  meted  out  heaven  with  the  span, 
\  And  comprehended  the  dust 

Of  the  earth  in  a  measure, 
And  weighed  the  mountains  in  scales. 
And  the  hills  in  a  balance  ! 

Here  is  an  exquisite  passage  from  Habakkuk :  — 

Although  the  fig-tree  shall  not  blossom. 
Neither  shall  fruit  be  in  the  vines  ; 
The  labor  of  the  olive  shall  fail, 
And  the  fields  shall  yield  no  meat ; 
The  flock  shall  be  cut  off  from  the  fold, 
And  there  shall  be  no  herd  in  the  stalls, — 
Yet  will  I  rejoice  in  the  Lord, 
I  will  joy  in  the  God  of  my  salvation  ! 

How  intense,  full-souled,  and  spiritual  is  the  book  of 
Psalms  !  The  divine  sentiments  embalmed  in  these 
deathless  songs  of  the  minstrel -monarch  of  Israel 
have  been  ever  cherished  by  the  Christian  as  an  in- 
valuable repository  of  consolation  and  counsel  in  all 
times  of  affliction,  and  a  divine  guide  and  auxiliary  to 
devout  aspirations,  in  seasons  of  hope  and  rejoicing. 


14  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    TOETS. 

Said  worthy  Dr.  Donne,  "The  Psalms  are  the  manna 
of  the  Church.  Some  are  imperial  psalms,  commanding 
all  affection,  and  spreading  themselves  over  all  occa- 
sions, —  catholic,  universal  psalms,  —  that  apply  them- 
selves to  all  necessities."  The  gifted  Edward  Irving 
thus  eloquently  refers  to  these  matchless  inspirations : 
"  Where  are  there  such  expressions  of  the  varied  con- 
ditions into  which  human  nature  is  cast  by  the  acci- 
dents of  Providence,  —  such  delineations  of  deep 
affliction  and  inconsolable  anguish  ;  and,  anon,  such 
joy,  such  rapture,  such  revelry  of  emotion,  in  the 
worship  of  the  living  God?  —  such  invocations  to  all 
nature,  animate  and  inanimate  ;  such  summonings  of 
the  hidden  powers  of  harmony,  and  of  the  breathing 
instruments  of  melody  ?  David  hath  dressed  out 
Religion  in  such  a  rich  and  beautiful  garment  of 
divine  poesy,  as  beseemeth  her  majesty ;  in  which 
being  arra3^ed,  she  can  stand  up  before  the  eyes,  even 
of  her  enemies,  in  more  royal  state,  than  any  personi- 
fication of  love  or  glory  or  pleasure,  to  which  highly 
gifted  mortals  have  devoted  their  genius."  And, 
still  later,  an  eloquent  son  of  the  American  church  * 
tells  us:  "David  has  left  no  sweeter  psalm  than  the 
short  Twenty-third.  It  is  but  a  moment's  opening 
of  his  soul ;  yet  in  it  are  emitted  truths  of  peace  and 
ccnsoladon  that  will  never  be  absent  from  the  world. 
It  is  the  nightingale  of  the  Psalms  :  it  is  small,  of  a 
homely  feather,  singing  slyly  out  of  obscurity ;  but 
oh !  it  has  filled  the  whole  world  with  melodious  joy 
greater  than  the  heart  can  conceive.  It  has  charmed 
more  griefs  to  rest  than  all  the  philosophy  of  the 
world ;   it  has  poured  balm  and  consolation   into  the 

•  H.  W.  Beecher. 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  I5 

hearts  of  the  dying.  Nor  will  it  fold  its  wing  till  the 
last  pilgrim  is  safe,  and  time  ended ;  and  then  it  shall 
fly  back  to  the  bosom  of  God,  from  whence  it  issued." 
It  was  the  Fifty-first  Psalm  that  Rogers,  the  first 
martyr  of  EngHsh  Protestantism,  sang,  as  he  passed 
from  his  prison  to  the  stake  at  Smithfield ;  and  who 
shall  enumerate  the  multitude  of  Christian  pilgrims 
who  have  derived  spiritual  counsel  and  comfort  from 
these  divine  utterances?  Listen  to  this  sublime  chant 
of  adoration,  at  the  commencement  of  the  One-hundred- 
and-fourth  Psalm  :  — 

Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul ! 

O  Lord,  my  God,  Thou  art  very  great : 

Thou  art  clothed  with  honor  and  majesty, 

Who  coverest  Thyself  with  light  as  with  a  garment, 

Who  stretchest  out  the  heavens  hke  a  curtain. 

Who  layest  the  beams  of  Thy  chambers  in  the  waters, 

Who  makest  the  clouds  Thy  chariots. 

Who  walkest  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind  ! 

What  strength  and  sublimity,  too,  in  this  invocation  at 
the  close  of  the  Twenty-fourth  Psalm  :  — 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates  ; 

And  be  ye  lift  up,  ye  everlasting  doors ; 

And  the  King  of  Glory  shall  come  in  ! 

Who  is  this  King  of  Glory  ? 

The  Lord  strong  and  mighty, 

The  Lord  mighty  in  battle  ! 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates  ; 

Even  lift  them  up,  ye  everlasting  doors  ; 

And  the  King  of  Glory  shall  come  in  ! 

Who  is  this  King  of  Glory?  — 

The  Lord  of  Hosts,  — He  is  the  King  of  Glory! 

And  how  magnificent  a  spectacle  must  it  have  been 
to  see  the  glittering  throng  of  Jewish  worshippers 


l6  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

as  the  mighty  procession,  with  their  priests  and  musi- 
cians, moved,  in  stately  measures,  onward  to  the  gor- 
geously appointed  Temple,  chanting  this  jubilant 
anthem  of  praise  to  Jehovah  !  — 

I  am  glad  when  they  say  to  me, 

Let  us  go  into  the  House  of  Jehovah. 

My  feet  shall  stand  within  thy  gates, 

O  Jerusalem  ! 
Jerusalem  is  built  a  compact  city, 
House  joins  to  house  within  it. 
Thither  the  Tribes  go  up,  the  Tribes  of  Jehovah, 
To  the  memorial  feast  for  Israel, 
To  praise  the  majesty  of  Jehovah. 
There  stand  the  thrones  of  Judgment, 
The  thrones  which  the  King  hath  established. 
Pray  for  the  peace  of  Jerusalem, 
They  shall  prosper  that  love  thee. 
Peace  be  within  thy  walls, 
And  tranquillity  within  thy  palaces  : 
For  my  brethren  and  companions'  sakes, 
I  will  say,  Peace  be  within  thee  ; 
Because  of  the  Temple  of  our  God, 
I  will  seek  thy  good.  * 

We  learn,  from  the  experience  of  the  centuries,  how 
precious  a  relic  the  minstrel -monarch  of  Israel  be- 
queathed to  the  Church,  in  his  Psalms.  According 
to  Dean  Stanley,  Sir  Patrick  Hume  beguiled  the 
weary  hours  of  his  imprisonment  by  repeating  to  him- 
self Buchanan's  version  of  the  Psalms,  which  he  had 
committed  to  memory.  Augustine  was  consoled,  on 
his  conversion,  and  on  his  death-bed,  by  their  sweet 
solace  ;  and  Chrysostom,  Athanasius,  Savonarola,  and 
many  others  like  them,  were  cheered  and  sustained 
thereby  amid  sore  persecution.  How  man}^  like 
Polycarp,  and  Jerome  of  Prague,  or  Jewel  and  Me- 

•  Herder's  oaraiihrase. 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  1 7 

lancthon,  expired  with  the  words  of  a  psahii  upon 
their  lips?  The  sixty-eighth  Psalm  cheered  Crom- 
well's soldiers  to  victory  at  Dunbar ;  and  others 
formed  the  basis  of  the  brave  war-lyrics  of  the  heroic 
Luther. 

David,  it  has  been  beautifully  said,  "  has  bequeathed 
us  so  many  psalms  in  which  the  waiting,  contrite 
soul.',  of  ages  so  remote,  and  races  so  diverse,  as  ours 
from  his,  find  a  fuller  and  fitter  expression  of  their 
aspirations  and  their  needs,  than  all  the  piety  and 
genius  of  intervening  ages  have  been  able  to  indite. 
Yes,  this  untaught  shepherd-son  of  Jesse,  this  leader 
in  many  a  sanguinary  fight,  this  man  of  a  thousand 
faults,  knew  how  to  sweep  the  cords  of  the  human 
heart,  as  few  or  none  have  ever  touched  them  before 
or  since, — to  take  that  heart,  with  all  its  frailty,  its 
error,  its  sin,  and  lay  it  penitently,  pleadingly,  at  the 
footstool  of  its  Maker  and  Judge,  and  teach  it  by  what 
utterances,  in  what  spirit,  to  implore  forgiveness  and 
help.  Other  thrones  have  their  successions,  d3mas- 
ties,  their  races  of  occupants ;  but  David  reigns  un- 
challenged king  of  Psalmody  till  time  shall  be  no 
more."  * 

"  How  strange  it  seems,  to  fall  upon  those  wonderful 
lyrics  in  the  Psalms  of  David,  singing  to  us  out  of  the 
rude  ages  of  the  past,  where  we  naturally  expect 
harshness  and  severity !  How  wonderful  that  our 
age  should  go  back  to  this  old  warrior  to  learn  ten- 
derness !  —  that  the  most  exquisite  views  of  Divine 
compassion  should  spring  forth  from  the  M^orld's 
untrained  periods;  —  from  Moses,  the  shepherd  and 
legislator  of  the  desert;   and  from  David,  the  sweet 

•  Horace  Greeley. 


l8  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

singer  of  Israel,  whose  hand  was  mightiest  among  the 
mighty,  whether  laid  upon  the  strings  of  the  bow  or 
of  the  harp."'  * 

The  majestic  grandeur  of  the  Mosaic  record  of  cre- 
ation was  not  unnoticed,  even  by  that  noble  Greek 
philosopher,  Longinus,  who  thus  curiously  cites  the 
passage,  in  his  treatise  on  the  Sublime:  — 

And  God  said  —  What  ?     Let  there  be  light ! 

And  there  was  light ! 

Let  the  earth  be  !  —  and  the  earth  was  ! 

Kindred  examples  of  sublimit}-  might  be  quoted  from 
the  New  Testament:  let  one  suffice,  —  the  Divine  in- 
vocation, — 

Lazarus,  come  forth  ! 

The  three  Christian  songs  of  primitive  times  were 
those  of  the  Virgin,  of  Zacharias,  and  of  Simeon. 
These,  it  has  been  beautifully  said,t  formed,  "  The  first 
triad  of  Christian  hymns,  the  three  matin-songs  of 
Christianity.  Ere  another  was  added  to  the  sacred  list, 
the  great  victory,  which  had  thus  been  sung,  had  to  be 
won,  —  not  with  songs,  but  with  'strong  crying  and 
tears,'  and  unutterable  anguish, — by  one  dying,  hu- 
man voice,  speaking  in  darkness  from  the  cross,  'It  is 
finished!'"  Yet  are  these  dying-words  the  fountain- 
head  of  every  hymn  of  joy  and  triumph,  which  men 
have  ever  sung  since  Eden  was  closed,  or  ever  will 
sing  throughout  eternity. 

The  sweetest  melody  that  ever  echoed  from  the 
skies  was  the  ecstatic  hymn  of  the  angel-band,  on  the 
plains  of  Bethlehem,  announcing  the  grace  of  Heaven 
to  our  sin-smitten  earth  :  — 

•  H.  W.  Beecher.  t  Christian  Life  in  Song. 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  I9 

Glory  to  God  in  the  highest, 

On  earth  peace,  good-will  toward  men  ! 

Jude's  closing  benediction  is  a  beautiful  burst  of  poetic 
grandeur : — 

Now  unto  Him  that  is  able  to  keep  you  from  falling. 

And  to  present  you  faultless  before  the  presence 

Of  His  glory,  with  exceeding  joy,  — 

To  the  only  wise  God,  our  Saviour, 

Be  glory  and  majesty,  dominion  and  power, 

Both  now  and  ever,  Amen. 

"  Its  divine  Author  made  the  Bible  not  only  an  in- 
structive book,  but  an  attractive  one  :  He  filled  it  with 
marvellous  incident  and  engaging  history,  —  with 
sunny  pictures  from  Old- World  scenery,  and  affecting 
anecdotes  from  the  patriarchal  times.  He  replenished 
it  with  stately  argument  and  thrilling  verse  ;  He  made 
it  a  book  of  lofty  thoughts  and  noble  images,  —  a  book 
of  heavenly  doctrine,  but  withal  of  earthly  adapta- 
tion."* "As  a  skilful  musician,  called  to  execute 
alone  some  masterpiece,  puts  his  lips,  by  turns,  to  the 
mournful  flute,  the  shepherd's-reed,  the  mirthful  pipe, 
and  the  war-trumpet;  so  the  Almighty  God,  to  sound 
in  our  ears  His  eternal  word,  has  selected,  from  of  old, 
the  instruments  best  suited  to  receive,  successively, 
the  breath  of  His  Spirit.  Thus  we  have,  in  God's 
great  anthem  of  Revelation,  the  sublime  simplicity  of 
John ;  the  argumentative,  elliptical,  soul-stirring  en- 
ergy of  Paul ;  the  fervor  and  solemnity  of  Peter ;  the 
poetic  grandeur  of  Isaiah ;  the  lyric  moods  of  David  ; 
the  ingenuous  and  majestic  narratives  of  Moses ;  and 
the  sententious  and  royal  wisdom  of  Solomon.  Yes, 
it  was  all  this  —  it  was  Peter,  Isaiah,  Matthew,  John, 
or  Moses  ;  but  it  was  God."  f 

*  Hamilton.  t  Gaussen. 


20  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

In  passing  from  the  "goodly  fellowship  of  the 
prophets,"  to  the  "company  of  the  apostles,"  we  come 
to  the  wondrous  Apocalyptic  vision  of  Patmos.  Here 
metaphor,  symbol,  and  trope  revel  in  richest  exuber- 
ance and  prodigality  of  beauty  and  grandeur.  In  all 
the  realm  of  Poesy,  there  are  no  passages  more  truly 
sublime  than  are  to  be  found  in  the  Apocalypse,  the 
closing  book  of  the  sacred  canon.  An  eloquent  eccle- 
siastical historian  *  compares  it,  on  this  account,  to  the 
grand  altar-window  of  the  great  Temple  of  Truth, 
or  of  a  cathedral,  through  which  gleams  gorgeous 
imagery  of  richly  variegated  hues,  diffusing  a  celestial 
glory  over  the  earthly  sanctuary.  May  not  this  beau- 
tiful figure  be  applied,  at  least  in  a  subordinate  sense, 
to  all  true  sacred  poetry ;  since  its  themes  are,  for  the 
most  part,  those  of  supernal  grandeui*',  —  not  limited 
to  the  affairs  of  our  present  estate  of  being,  but  also 
pertaining  to  our  immortality? 


How  beautiful  is  genius,  when  combined 

With  lioline?;s,  —  O,  how  divinely  sweet 

The  tones  of  earthly  harp,  who-e  chords  are  touched 

By  the  soft  hand  of  Piety,  and  hung 

Upon  Religion's  shrine  1 1 

Such  noble  service  has  been  rendered  by  multitudes 
of  loving  and  gifted  spirits,  whose  beautiful  melodies, 
thus  consecrated  to  the  sublimest  of  all  themes,  and 
to  the  highest  instincts  of  our  being,  are  still  echoing 
through  the  ages,  and  will  ever  continue  to  find  a  living 
response  in  all  Christian  hearts.  Man}'-  of  those  sweet 
singers  belong  to  the  noble  army  of  martyrs  and  confes- 
sors, —  men  of  spiritual  might  and  prowess,  — victors 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  21 

who  have  fought  valiantly  for  truth  and  virtue,  in  times  of 
darkness  and  peril.  To  the  ear  rightly  attuned,  some 
of  those  grand  choral  harmonies  of  the  early  centuries, 
as  well  as  the  heroic  stanzas  of  the  lion-hearted  Luther, 
come  laden  to  us  with  inexpressible  sweetness  and 
power.  These  minstrelsies  are  enshrined  in  the  bosom 
of  the  Church  catholic,  as  the  precious  legacy  of  her 
departed  saints  and  sages ;  and  all  who  cherish  a  hope 
in  the  beatitudes  of  Heaven,  will  love  to  linger  fondly 
over  these  beautiful  and  expressive  utterances.  They 
are  the  experiences  of  patient  faith  in  times  of  sad  un- 
rest, —  the  plaintive  "  songs  in  the  night "  of  sorrow, 
as  well  as  of  the  alternations  of  ecstatic  bursts  of  joy. 
The  type  of  early  Chrisdan  life  which  they  reveal,  is 
identical,  in  all  its  phases,  with  that  of  our  own  time. 
How  can  we,  then,  too  highly  prize  these  sacred  relics 
of  the  past?  Yes :  the  Christian  of  our  own  time  is  stirred 
by  the  same  antagonisms  of  flesh  and  spirit,  conscious 
of  the  same  keen  conflict  between  sin  and  grace,  drawn 
onward  by  the  same  hopes,  prompted  to  action  by  the 
same  aspirations,  and  borne  aloft  by  the  same  impul- 
sive motives.  Despite  the  mental  activity  and  intel- 
lectual development  of  the  nineteenth  century,  we  find 
ourselves  on  the  same  platform  of  faith  and  hope,  and 
love,  with  those  whose  spiritual  condition  and  progress 
were  described  centuries  ago.  The  continuous  stream 
of  hallowed  poesy  flows  on ;  age  after  age  lifts  up  its 
voice  ;  voice  after  voice  takes  up  the  subject ;  and  it  is 
perpetuated  with  but  a  varied  rhythm,  and  in,  perhaps, 
a  slightly  varied  key.  The  earliest  known  Christian 
hymn  is  that  ascribed  to  Clement,  Bishop  of  Alexan- 
dria, who  suffered  martyrdom  a.d.  217.  Fragments  of 
still  earlier  date  meet  us  in  the  older  liturgies ;  but 


22  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

this  Greek  hymn  is  the  one  complete  relic  of  the  wor- 
ship of  the  close  of  the  second  century.  It  is  remark- 
able for  its  quaintly  interwoven  imagery,  under  which 
our  Saviour  is  impersonated.  It  is  also  remarkable 
for  its  glowing  beauty  and  archaic  simplicity.  We 
subjoin  some  portions  of  the  English  rendering  by  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Plumptre  :  — 

Shepherd  of  sheep  that  own 
Their  Master  on  the  throne, 
Stir  up  Thy  children  meek 
With  guileless  lij^s  to  speak, 
In  hymn  and  song,  Thy  praise, 
Guide  of  their  infant  ways. 
O  King  of  saints,  O  Lord  ! 
Mighty,  all-conquering  Word ; 
Son  of  the  highest  God, 
Wielding  His  Wisdom's  rod  ; 
Our  stay  when  cares  annoy, 
Giver  of  endless  joy  ; 
Of  all  our  mortal  race 
Saviour  of  boundless  grace,  — 
O  Jesus,  hear. 

Lead  us,  O  Shepherd  true. 
Thy  mystic  sheep,  we  sue  : 
Lead  us,  O  holy  Lord, 
Who  from  Thy  sons  dost  ward, 
With  all-prevailing  charm. 
Peril  and  curse  and  harm  ; 
O  Path  where  Christ  hath  trod, 
O  Way  that  leads  to  God, 
O  Word  abiding  aye, 
O  endless  Light  on  high, 
Mercy's  fresh-springing  flood. 
Worker  of  all  things  good, 
O  glorious  Life  of  all 
That  on  their  Maker  call,  — 
Christ  Jesus,  hear. 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  23 

Of  Clement's  personal  history  scarcely  any  thing  is 
known,  except  that  he  lived  in  times  of  terrible  perse- 
cution ;  having  been  himself  obliged  at  length  to  flee 
for  his  life,  from  Alexandria.  The  few  words  following, 
from  one  of  his  homilies,  will  serve  to  commend  his 
saintship  to  our  hearty  friendship  and  regard  :  "  Prayer, 
if  I  may  speak  so  boldly,  is  intercourse  with  God. 
Even  if  we  do  but  lisp,  even  though  we  silently  ad- 
dress God  without  opening  our  lips,  yet  we  cry  to 
Him  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  heart ;  for  God  al- 
ways listens  to  the  sincere  direction  of  the  heart  to 
Him."  The  "Gloria  in  Excelsis  "  is  probably  trace- 
able to  an  earlier  date  than  that  of  Clement,  —  its 
exact  origin  not  being  determined ;  at  all  events,  it  is 
a  precious  heirloom  in  the  household  of  faith  ;  linking, 
like  the  divine  oracles,  the  faith  and  worship  of  the 
primitive,  with  the  present  age  of  the  Church. 

After  Clement,  we  have  no  account  of  any  othei 
Greek  hymnist  till  Ephreem  Syrus,  a  monk  of  Meso- 
potamia,—  "  that  land  beyond  the  flood,"  in  which  the 
"father  of  the  faithful"  was  called  to  be  a  pilgrim. 
Ephreem  is  supposed  to  have  died  about  a.d.  378.  The 
songs  of  this  Syrian  saint  are  regarded,  by  critics,  as 
among  the  finest  of  the  Greek  Church,  being  charac- 
terized by  deep  devotional  feeling,  and  force  and  beau- 
ty of  imagery.  Here  are  some  examples  from  Daniel's 
German  version  of  the  Syriac  :  — 


The  heavens  in  their  quiet  beauty 

Praise  Thy  essential  majesty  ! 
The  heights  rejoice,  from  whence  Thou  earnest, 

The  depths  spring  up  to  welcome  Thee  ! 
The  sea  exults  to  feel  Thy  footsteps, 

The  land  Thy  tread,  Lord,  knoweth  well ; 


24  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Our  human  nature  brings  thanksgivings 

Because  Thy  Godhead  there  doth  dwell ! 
To-day  the  sun,  rejoicing,  shineth, 

With  happy  radiance,  tenfold  bright, 
In  homage  to  that  Sun  of  Glory 

Who  brings  to  all  the  nations  light ! 
The  moon  shall  shed  her  fairest  lustre, 

O'er  all  the  heavens  her  softest  glow, 
Thee,  on  her  radiant  heights  adoring, 

Who  for  our  sakes  hast  stooped  so  low  ! 
And  all  the  starry  hosts  of  heaven, 

In  festive  robes  of  light  arrayed, 
Shall  bring  their  festal  hymns,  as  offerings 

To  Him  who  all  so  fair  hath  made. 
To-day  the  forests  are  rejoicing  ; 

Each  tree  its  own  sweet  anthem  sings, 
Because  we  wave  their  leafy  branches 

As  banners  for  the  King  of  kings  !  * 

The  following  funeral  hymn  by  this  sweet  Syrian 
singer,  formerly  sung  at  the  death  of  children,  is  re- 
plete with  touching  pathos,  and  beautifully  portrays 
the  strife  of  Christian  faith  with  natural  affection,  and 
the  triumph  of  the  former  in  resignation  :  — 

Child,  by  God's  sweet  mercy  given  to  thy  mother  and  to  me, — 
Entering  this  world  of  sorrows,  by  His  grace,  —  so  fair  to  see  ; 
Fair  as  some  sweet  flower  in  summer,  till  Death's  hand  on  thee 

was  laid. 
Scorched  the  beauty  from  my  flower,  made  the  tender  petals  fade. 
Yet  I  dare  not  weep  nor  murmur,  for  I  know  the  King  of  kings 
Leads  thee  to  His  marriage-chamber,  —  to  the  glorious  bridal  brings 
Nature   fain  would  leave  me  weeping,  love  asserts  her  mournfu! 

right ; 
But  I  answer,  they  have  brought  thee  to  the  happy  world  of  light ! 
And  I  fear  that  my  lamentings,  as  I  speak  thy  cherished  name. 
Desecrate  the  Royal  dwelling,  —  fear  to  meet  deserved  blame. 
If  I  press  with  tears  of  anguish  into  the  abode  of  joy  ; 
Therefore,  will  I,  meekly  bowing,  offer  thee  to  God,  my  boy ! 

•  Mrs.  Charles's  translation. 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  25 

Yet  thy  voice,  thy  childish  singing,  soundeth  ever  in  my  ears  ; 
Ai'wd  I  listen,  and  remember,  till  mine  eyes  will  gather  tears. 
Thinking  of  thy  pretty  prattlings,  and  thy  childish  words  of  love  ; 
But  when  I  begin  to  murmur,  then  my  spirit  looks  above, — 
Listens  to  the  songs  of  spirits  ;  listens,  lon'ging,  wondering. 
To  the  ceaseless  glad  hosannas  angels  at  thy  bridal  sing.* 

Gregory,  of  Nazianzum,  ascetic  in  heart  though  he 
was,  seems  never  to  have  forgotten  the  genial  influ- 
ences of  home,  or  the  inspiring  faith  of  his  saintly 
mother.  He  lived  in  troublous  times  :  "  The  outward 
attacks  of  Julian,  the  apostate,  were,"  as  Gregory 
himself  says,  "  almost  a  rest,  compared  with  the 
bitter  inward  strife  of  sects  and  heresies."  Through 
all  these  perplexities,  Gregory  Nazianzen,  Basil  the 
Great,  and  Gregory  of  Nyssa,  the  three  Cappadocian 
Fathers,  had  to  wend  their  way ;  and  out  of  them  all, 
by  means  of  Basil's  brother,  — Gregory  of  Nyssa, — 
has  been  evolved  for  us  the  simple  doctrine  of  the 
Nicene  creed.  From  amid  the  tumult  of  such  stirring 
scenes,  such  sweetly-syllabled  utterances  as  these 
come  welling  up  to  us  from  that  far-off"  distance.  It 
is  an  evening  hymn  :  — 

Christ,  my  Lord,  I  come  to  bless  Thee,  now  when  day  is  veiled  in 

night ; 
Thou,  who  knowest  no  beginning.  Light  of  the  Eternal  Light ! 

Thou  hast  set  the  radiant  heavens  with  Thy  many  lamps  of  bright- 
ness. 

Filling  all  the  vaults  above  ; 
Day  and  night  in  turn  subjecting  to  a  brotherhood  of  service, 

And  a  mutual  law  of  love  ! 

Our  last  selection  from  Gregory  shall  be  from  his 
lament  over  the  weakness  and  desolateness  of  his  old 
age:  — 

*  Christian  Life  in  Song. 


26  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Wliere  are  the  winged  words  ?     Lost  in  the  air. 

Where  the  fresh  flower  of  youth  and  glory  ?     Gone  ! 

The  strength  of  well-knit  limbs  ?     Brought  low  by  care. 

Wealth  ?     Plundered  :  none  possess  but  God  alone  ! 

Where  those  de  tr  parents,  who  my  life  first  gave,  — 

And  wliere  tha   holy  twain,  brother  and  sister  .''     In  the  grave ! 

But  Thou,  O  Christ,  my  King,  art  fatherland  to  me  : 
Strength,  wealth,  eternal  rest,  —  yea,  all, —  I  find  in  Thee! 

Here  is  the  opening  of  one  of  the  hymns  or  odes  of 
Synesius.  The  translation  is  by  the  author  of  "  The 
Cathedral." 

Come,  sweet  harp,  resounding  Teian  strains  of  yore, 
With  soft  airs  abounding  round  the  Lesbian  shore, 
Doric  shell,  awake  thy  soft  themes  no  more. 
Talk  no  more  of  maiden  fair  with  beauty's  wiles. 
Youth  with  blessings  laden,  whom  new  life  beguiles. 
Smiling  as  it  flies,  flying  as  it  smiles. 
Wisdom,  which  ne'er  wrongeth,  born  of  God  above, 
Toils  in  birth,  and  longeth  your  sweet  chords  to  prove. 
And  hath  bid  me  flee  woes  of  earthly  love. 
What  is  strength  or  glory,  beauty,  gold,  or  fame  ? 
What  renown  in  story,  or  in  kingly  name, 
To  the  thoughts  of  God,  —  cares  which  bring  not  blame  .-' 
One  o'er  steeds  is  bending,  one  his  bow  hath  strung. 
One  his  gold  is  tending  ;  one  by  youth  is  sung, 
With  bright  looks,  and  locks  o'er  his  shoulders  flung. 
Mine  be  the  low  portal,  paths  in  silence  trod. 
Knowing  not  things  mortal,  — knowing  things  of  God  ; 
While  still  at  my  side  Wisdom  holds  her  rod, — 
Wisdom  youth  adorning,  Wisdom  cheering  age  ; 
Wisdom,  wealth's  best  warning,  want's  best  heritage, 
Poverty  herself  shall  with  smiles  engage. 

Synesius  of  Cyrene,  afterwards  of  Ptolemais,  is  con- 
sidered, for  his  endowments,  chief  of  the  poets  of  the 
Greek  Church  :  he  was,  however,  too  deeply  tinctured 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  2*J 

With  the  Platonic  philosophy  to  be  regarded  as  a  true 
Christian  poet. 

St.  Anatolius,  of  Constantinople,  who  lived  in  the 
fifth  century  of  the  Christian  era,  wrote  the  follow- 
ing terse  hymn.  The  translation  is  by  the  lamented 
J.  Mason  Neale. 

Fierce  was  the  wild  billow,  dark  was  the  night, 
Oars  labored  heavily,  foam  glimmered  white  ; 
Mariners  trembled,  peril  was  nigh  : 
Then  said  the  God  of  God,  "  Peace,  it  is  I !  " 

Jesu,  Deliverer !  come  Thou  to  me  ; 
Soothe  Thou  my  voyaging  over  life's  sea : 
Thou,  when  the  storm  of  death  roars  sweeping  by, 
Whisper,  O  Truth  of  Truth,  "  Peace,  it  is  I  ! " 

Andrew,  of  Crete,  who  lived  in  the  early  part  of  the 
seventh  century,  is  the  author  of  the  following  extracts 
from  "  The  Great  Canon  of  the  Mid-Lent  Week."  The 
entire  poem  extends  to  over  three  hundred  verses. 

Whence  shall  my  tears  begin  ? 

What  first-fruits  shall  I  bear 
Of  earnest  sorrow  for  my  sin  ? 

Or  how  my  woes  declare  ? 
O  Thoir,  the  merciful  and  gracious  One  ! 
Forgive  the  foul  transgressions  I  have  done. 

If  Adam's  righteous  doom, 

Because  he  dared  transgress 
Thy  one  decree,  lost  Eden's  bloom 

And  Eden's  loveliness, 
What  recompense,  O  Lord  !  must  I  expect. 
Who  all  my  life  thy  quickening  laws  neglect  ? 

Another  eminent  ecclesiastical  poet  of  the  East,  Cos- 
mas,  the  Hierosolymite,  surnamed  "the   melodist,"  i? 


28  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

the    author   of    the    following    majestic    and    glowing 

stanzas :  — 

In  days  of  old,  on  Sinai  the  Lord  Jehovah  came, 

In  majesty  of  terror,  in  thunder-cloud  and  flame  !  — 

On  Tabor,  wth-the  glory  of  sunniest  light  for  rest, 

The  excellence  of  beauty  in  Jesus  was  expressed. 

All  hours  and  days  inclined  there,  and  did  Thee  worship  meet ; 

The  sun  himself  adored  Thee,  and  bowed  him  at  Thy  feet : 

While  Moses  and  Elias  upon  the  Holy  Mount 

The  coeternal  glory  of  Christ  our  God  recount. 

O  holy,  wondrous  vision  !  but  what,  when  this  life  past, 

The  beauty  of  Mount  Tabor  shall  end  in  Heaven  at  last  ? 

But  what,  when  all  the  glory  of  uncreated  light 

Shall  be  the  promised  guerdon  of  them  that  win  the  fight  ? 

Theophanes,  who,  with  the  exception  of  St.  Joseph 
of  the  Studium,  was  the  most  prolific  of  Oriental  hym- 
nographers,  furnishes  to  us  a  beautiful  conceit  in  the 
following  stanza  :  — 

O  glorious  Paradise  !     O  lovely  clime  ! 
O  God-built  mansions  !     Joy  of  every  saint ! 
Happy  remembrance  to  all  coming  time  ! 
Whisper,  with  all  thy  leaves,  in  cadence  faint, 
One  prayer  to  Him  who  made  them  all. 
One  prayer  for  Adam  in  his  fall !  — 
That  He,  who  formed  thy  gates  of  yore, 
Would  bid  those  gates  unfold  once  more, 

That  I  had  closed  by  sin  ; 

And  let  me  taste  that  holy  tree 

That  giveth  immortality 

To  them  that  dwell  therein  ! 

Or  have  I  fallen  so  far  from  grace, 

That  mercy  hath  for  me  no  place  ? 

The  following  extract  is  from  an  anthem  by  the  same : 

Let  our  choir  new  anthems  raise ; 

Wake  the  morn  with  gladness  : 
God  Himself  to  joy  and  praise 

Turns  the  martyrs'  sadness. 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  29 

This  the  day  that  won  their  crown, 

Opened  Heaven's  bright  portal ; 
As  they  laid  the  mortal  down, 

And  put  on  the  immortal ! 

Up,  and  follow,  Christian  men  ! 

Press  through  toil  and  sorrow  ! 
Spurn  the  night  of  fear,  and  then,  — 

Oh,  the  glorious  morrow  ! 
Who  will  venture  on  the  strife  ? 

Blest  who  first  begin  it ! 
Who  will  grasp  the  land  of  life  ? 

Warriors  !  up,  and  win  it ! 

Another  member  of  the  Studium,  Theoclistus,  of 
the  ninth  centmy,  is  the  author  of  these  grand  lines, 
translated  by  Dr.  Neale  :  — 

Jesu,  —  name  all  names  above,  —  Jesu,  best  and  dearest,  — 
Jesu,  fount  of  perfect  love,  —  holiest,  tenderest,  nearest! 
Jesu,  source  of  grace  completest,  —  Jesu,  purest,  Jesu,  sweetest, 
Jesu,  well  of  power  divine,  —  make  me,  keep  me,  seal  me,  —  Thine  ! 
Thou  didst  call  the  prodigal,  Thou  didst  pardon  Mary  : 
Thou,  whose  words  can  never  fail,  love  can  never  vary,  — 
Lord,  amidst  my  lost  condition,  give  —  for  thou  canst  give  —  con- 
trition. 
Thou  canst  pardon  all  mine  ill,  —  if  Thou  wilt :  oh,  say,  "  I  will  "  ! 
Woe,  that  I  have  turned  aside  after  fleshly  pleasure  ! 
Woe,  that  I  have  never  tried  for  the  heavenly  treasure  ! 
Treasure,  safe  in  homes  supernal,  —  incorruptible,  eternal  ! 
Treasure,  no  less  price  hath  won,  than  the  passion  of  the  Son  ! 

John  Damascenus,  contemporary  with  the  preced- 
ing, is  the  author  of  these  spirit-stirring  lines,  trans- 
lated by  Mrs.  Browning  :  — 

From  my  lips,  in  their  defilement, 
From  my  heart,  in  its  beguilement, 
From  my  tongue,  which  speaks  not  fair, 
From  my  soul,  stained  everywhere, 
O  my  Jesus,  take  my  prayer  ! 


30  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Spurn  me  not  for  all  it  says,  — 

Not  for  words,  and  not  for  ways,  * 

Not  for  shamelessness  endured  ; 

Make  me  brave  to  speak  my  mood, 

O  my  Jesus,  as  I  would  ! 
Or  teach  me,  which  1  rather  seek. 
What  to  do  and  what  to  speak. 
I  have  sinn6d  more  than  she 
Who,  learning  where  to  meet  with  thee, 
And  bringing  myrrh,  —  the  highest  priced,  — 
Anointed  bravely,  from  her  knee, 
Thy  blessed  feet ;  accordingly, 
My  God,  my  Lord,  my  Christ ! 
As  Thou  saidest  not,  "  Depart," 
To  that  suppliant  from  her  heart. 
Scorn  me  not,  O  Word  that  art 
The  gentlest  one  of  all  words  said  ; 
But  give  Thy  feet  to  me  instead. 
That  tenderly  I  may  them  kiss, 
And  clasp  them  close,  and  never  miss, 
With  over-dropping  tears,  as  free 
And  precious  as  that  myrrh  could  be, 
T'  anoint  them  bravely  from  my  knee  ! 

Among  the  magnificent  canons,  or  long  h3'mns, 
which  are  the  glory  of  the  Eastern  Church,  we  select 
the  celebrated  "  H3'mn  of  Victory,"  by  St.  John  of 
Damascus,  sung  immediately  after  midnight  on  Easter 
morning,  during  the  S3'mbolical  ceremony  of  lighting 
the  tapers  :  — 

'Tis  the  day  of  Resurrection  !  earth,  tell  it  all  abroad  ! 

The  Passover  of  gladness  !  the  Passover  of  God  ! 

From  death  to  life  eternal,  from  earth  unto  the  sky. 

Our  Christ  hath  brought  us  over,  with  hymns  of  victory! 

Our  hearts  be  pure  from  evil,  that  we  may  see  aright 

The  Lord,  in  rays  eternal  of  Resurrection  light ; 

And,  listening  to  His  accents,  may  hear  so  calm  and  plain 

His  own  "  All  Hail  !  "  and  hearing,  may  raise  the  victor  strain. 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  3I 

Now  let  the  heavens  be  joyful ;  let  earth  her  song  begin  ; 
Let  the  round  world  keep  triumph,  and  all  that  is  therein ! 
Invisible  or  visible,  their  notes  let  all  things  blend  ; 
For  Christ  the  Lord  hath  risen,  our  joy  that  hath  no  end !  * 

One  of  the  grandest  outbursts  of  sacred  song  which 
Dr.  M.  Neale  has  rescued  from  the  long-buried  past, 
is  the  following,  by  Stephen,  of  the  Monastery  of 
S.  S abbas  :  — 

Art  thou  weary,  art  thou  languid,  art  thou  sore  distrest  ? 

"  Come  to  me,"  saith  One,  —  and  "  coming,  be  at  rest !  " 

Hath  He  marks  to  lead  me  to  Him,  —  if  He  be  my  Guide  ? 

In  His  feet  and  hands  are  wound-prints,  and  His  side ! 

Is  there  diadem,  as  monarch,  that  His  brow  adorns  ? 

Yea  :  a  crown,  in  very  surety,  —  but  of  thorns  ! 

If  I  find  Him,  if  I  follow,  what  His  guerdon  here  ? 

Many  a  sorrow,  many  a  labor,  many  a  tear  ! 

If  I  still  hold  closely  to  Him,  what  hath  He  at  last  ? 

Sorrow  vanquished,  labor  ended,  Jordan  past ! 

If  I  ask  Him  to  receive  me,  will  He  say  me  nay  ? 

Not  till  earth,  and  not  till  heaven  pass  away ! 

Tending,  following,  keeping,  struggling,  is  He  sure  to  bless  ? 

Angels,  martyrs,  prophets,  pilgrims,  answer,  Yes  ! 

The  last-named  singer,  with  others,  continued  to 
prolong  the  voice  of  song  in  the  Eastern  Church, 
'*  whilst  the  terrible  flood  was  gathering  in  Arabia, 
which  was  so  soon  to  sweep  over  Christendom,  and 
altogether  to  desolate  and  submerge  its  eastern  half. 
But  before  that  sacred  music  was  silenced,  its  tone  had 
long  begun  to  ring  less  clear.  Invocations  to  the  '  Moth- 
er of  God '  —  '  the  All-holy  '  —  crowd  thicker  and 
thicker  on  these  later  hymns  ;  and  if  Mohammedanism 
had  not  broken  all  the  strings  at  once,  there  seems  a 
danger  that  they  would  have  fallen  of  themselves  into 
more  and   more  jarring  discord.      Perhaps  the  very 

♦  Quarterly  Review. 


32  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

agony  of  that  great  desolation  tuned  many  a  heart  to 
music  it  had  not  known  before."  *  The  last  singer 
from  the  Orient  we  shall  cite,  is  Phile,  who,  indeed, 
is  about  the  last  of  his  order,  living  at  the  opening  of 
the  fourteenth  century.  We  are  indebted  for  the  Eng- 
lish version  of  the  following  to  the  accomplished  pen 
of  Mrs.  Browning:  — 

O  living  Spirit!     O  falling  of  God-dew, 

O  grace  which  dost  console  us,  and  renew 

O  vital  light,  0  breath  of  angelhood, 

O  generous  ministration  of  things  good  ! 

Creator  of  the  visible,  and  best 

Upholder  of  the  Great  Unmanifest ! 

Power  infinitely  wise,  new  boon  sublime 

Of  science  and  of  art,  constraining  might, 

In  whom  I  breathe,  live,  speak,  rejoice,  and  write,  — 

Be  with  us  in  all  places,  for  all  time  ! 

In  turning  to  the  Western  Church,  we  find  the 
sacred  melodies  somewhat  changed  in  character ;  the 
Latin  h3^mns  possessing  a  rugged  grandeur  of  expres- 
sion, while  they  are  often  deficient  in  the  elegant 
graces  of  the  Greek,  —  the  language  in  which  Chris- 
tianity first  announced  its  mission  to  the  world.  In 
the  words  of  an  eminent  critic, f  "The  fire  of  Revela- 
tion, in  its  strong  and  simple  energ}'',  by  which,  as  it 
were,  it  rends  the  rock,  and  bursts  the  icy  barriers  of 
the  human  heart,  predominates  in  those  oldest  pieces 
of  the  sacred  Latin  poesy  which  are  comprised  in  the 
Ambrosian  hymnology, — a  species  of  song  which 
moves  in  simplest  tones,  and  seldom  uses  rhyme." 

Of  the  "Tersanctus,"  or  thrice  holy,  all  we  know  is, 
that  it  has  been  traced  in  the  earliest  known  liturgies. 
The  grand  anthem  "  Te  Deum  Laudamus,"  according 

•  Christian  Life  in  Song.  t  Fortlage. 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  33 

to  tradition,  gushed  forth  in  sudden  inspiration  from 
the  lips  of  Ambrose,  as  he  baptized  Augustine ;  or 
other  authorities,  who  reject  the  legend,  believe  it  to 
have  sprung  from  an  earlier  Oriental  hymn.  If  so, 
might  it  not  possibly  have  formed  part  of  the  worship 
of  the  primitive  Christians,  who,  in  the  time  of  Pliny, 
"met  before  dawn,  to  sing  hymns  to  Christ,  as  God?  "  * 
That  same  "  Te  Deum  "  has  accompanied  many  a  mar- 
tyr to  the  stake,  in  Flanders,  Bavaria,  Germany,  Eng- 
land, and  elsewhere.  It  was  the  English  Bishop 
Fisher's  farewell  as  he  stood  beside  the  block.  Once 
It  was  lifted  up  where  no  lesser  hymn  would  have 
been  fitting,  —  when  Columbus  discovered  the  first 
gray  outline  of  the  New  World,  and  "  the  crew  threw 
themselves  into  each  other's  arms,  weeping  for  joy  !  " 
There  is  an  old  custom  still  perpetuated  at  Magda- 
len College,  Oxford,  at  the  dawn  of  May-day,  when 
the  "  Te  Deum "  is  sung  in  the  original  Latin,  from 
the  tower  of  the  college. f  St.  Ambrose,  born  about 
340,  and  probably  at  Treves,  was  made  bishop  of 
Milan  a.d.  374.  He  died  in  397.  The  hymns  that 
go  under  his  name  are  very  numerous  ;  but  only  twelve 
are  admitted,  by  the  Benedictine  editors,  to  be  from 
his  pen.  Ambrose  reflected  in  his  poetry,  not  only 
the  piety,  but  also  the  troublous  character,  of  the 
times  in  which  he  lived,  —  when  Christianity  was  es- 
pecially militant,  being  arrayed  in  direct  conflict  with 
heathenism  and  the  Arian  heresy. 

*  "  Carmenque  Christo,  quasi  Deo  !  "  —  Pliny,  lib.  x. 

t  An  incident  in  the  history  of  the  great  Robert  Hall  serves  to  set  forth  the  native  maj- 
esty of  the  "Te  Deum,"  and  its  close  conformity  to  thesptritand  mannerof  inspired  psalms. 
He  had  composed  a  sermon  on  a  text  which  had  touched  his  fine  sense  of  grandeur,  and 
had  deeply  moved  his  heart.  On  completing  his  sermon,  he  turned  to  the  Concordance  to 
find  the  text :  it  was  not  to  be  found:  it  was  not  in  the  Bible.  It  was  a  sentence  from  the 
"  Te  Deum,"  —  "  All  the  earth  doth  worship  Thee,  the  Father  everlasting." 

3 


^  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

The  practice  of  responsive  chanting,  called  "  Anti- 
phonal,"  used,  it  is  believed,  by  Chrysostom,  during 
vigils,  in  the  Eastern  Church,  was  thence  introduced 
into  the  Western  Church.*  Contemporary  with  Am- 
brose, lived  some  notable  Christian  singers, — such  as 
Augustine,  Hilary  of  Poictiers,  and  Prudentius.  In 
Augustine's  "Confessions,"  which,  although  written  in 
prose,  are  eminently  poetical,  he  reveals  to  us  some- 
thing of  the  deep  spiritual  emotion  with  which  he 
participated  in  the  choral  service  of  his  times,  where 
he  says,  "  How  did  I  weep,  through  the  hymns  and 
canticles,  touched  to  the  quick  by  the  voices  of  Thy 
sweet-attunod  church.  The  voices  sank  into  mine 
ears,  and  the  truth  distilled  into  mine  heart ;  whence 
the  affections  of  my  devotions  overflowed,  —  tears 
ran  down,  and  happy  was  I  therein."  The  following 
lines  are  ascribed  to  Ambrose,  by  Augustine :  — 

Maker  of  all,  the  Lord  and  Ruler  of  the  height ! 

Who,  robing  day  in  light, 

Hast  poured  soft  slumbers  o'er  the  night ; 

That  to  our  limbs  the  power  of  toil  may  be  renewed, 

And  hearts  be  raised,  that  sink  and  cower,  and  sorrows  be  subdued. 

Augustine  presents  a  beautiful  type  of  character,— 
the  happy  union  of  mental  power  with  childlike  hu- 
mility. He  has  not  left  us  hymns,  but  he  has  em- 
balmed his  spirit  in  noble  prose  ;  and  he  takes  rank 
with  the  illustrious,  in  the  archives  of  Christianity. 
Of  the  introduction  into  the  church  at  Milan,  of  the 
choral  service,  he  says,  — "  It  was  a  year,  or  not  much 
more,  that  Justina,  mother  to  the  emperor  Valcntinian, 
then  a  child,  persecuted  Thy  servant  Ambrose,  in  favor 
of  her  heresy,  to  which  she  was  seduced  by  the  Arians. 

•  Christoplier's  Hymn-writers. 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  35 

The  devout  people  kept  watch  in  the  church,  ready 
to  die  with  their  bishop,  Thy  servant.  There  my 
mother.  Thy  handmaid,  bearing  a  chief  part  in  those 
anxieties  and  watchings,  lived  for  prayer.  We,  yet 
un warmed  b}^  the  heat  of  Thy  Spirit,  still  were  stirred 
up  by  the  sight  of  the  amazed  and  disquieted  city. 
Then  it  was  instituted  (in  the  church  at  Milan)  that, 
after  the  manner  of  the  Eastern  churches,  hymns  and 
psalms  should  be  sung,  lest  the  people  should  wax 
faint  through  the  tediousness  of  sorrow  ;  and  from  that 
da}^  to  this,  the  custom  is  retained." 

Let  us  now  in  imagination  listen  to  the  little  saintly 
groups  of  early  morning  worshippers,  chanting,  in  the 
grand  sonorous  Latin,  the  following  hymn  of  St.  Hilary 
of  Aries :  — 

Thou  bounteous  Giver  of  the  light, 

All-glorious,  in  whose  light  serene, 
Now  that  the  night  has  passed  away, 

The  day  pours  back  her  sunny  sheen. 
Thou  art  the  world's  true  Morning  Star  ! 

Not  that  which,  on  the  edge  of  night, — 
Faint  herald  of  a  little  orb, 

Shines  with  a  dim  and  narrow  light ; 
Far  brighter  than  our  earthly  sun, 

Thyself  at  once  the  Light  and  Day ! 
The  inmost  chambers  of  the  heart 

Illumining  with  heavenly  ray. 

Be  every  evil  lust  repelled, 

By  guard  of  inward  purity, 
That  the  pure  body  evermore 

The  Spirit's  holy  shrine  may  be. 
These  are  our  votive  offerings, 

This  hope  inspires  us  as  we  pray, 
That  this  our  holy  matin  light 

May  guide  us  through  the  busy  day. 


36  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Listen  to  part  of  an  Easter  hymn,  ascribed  to  Am- 
brose :  — 

This  is  the  very  day  of  God  !  — 

Serene  with  holy  light  it  came,  — 
In  which  the  stream  of  sacred  blood 

Swept  over  the  world's  crime  and  shame. 
Lost  souls  with  faith  once  more  it  filled, 

The  darkness  from  blind  eyes  dissolved  ; 
Whose  load  of  fear,  too  great  to  yield, 

Seeing  the  dying  thief  absolved  ! 

O  admirable  Mystery ! 

The  sins  of  all  are  laid  on  Thee  : 

And  Thou,  to  cleanse  the  world's  deep  stain, 

As  man,  dost  bear  the  sins  of  men. 

What  can  be  ever  more  sublime  ! 

That  grace  might  meet  the  guilt  of  time. 

Love  doth  the  bonds  of  fear  undo, 

And  death  restores  our  life  anew  !  * 

Here  is  the  commencement  of  another  Ambrosian 
hymn  on  the  Ascension  of  our  Lord  :  — 

At  length,  the  longed-for  joy  is  given, 

The  sacred  day  begins  to  shine, 

When  Christ,  our  God,  our  Hope  divine, 
Ascends  the  radiant  steep  of  Heaven  ! 
Ascending  where  He  used  to  be, 

The  Lord  resumes  His  ancient  throne: 

The  heavenly  realms  with  joys  unknown, 
Only-begotten,  welcome  Thee  ! 
The  mighty  victory  is  wrought, 

The  prince  of  this  world  lieth  low ; 

The  Son  of  God  presenteth  now 
The  human  flesh  in  which  He  fought. 
High  o'er  the  clouds  He  comes  to  reign. 

Gives  hopes  to  those  who  in  Him  trust: 

The  Paradise  which  Adam  lost, 
He  opens  wide  to  man  again.* 

•  Mrs.  Charles's  tr.inslation. 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EAp.LY    LATIN.  37 

"  Whilst  undisguised  Paganism  still  lingered  in 
Christendom,  and  Bibles  were  scarce  and  readers  rare, 
there  was  a  beautiful  and  practical  meaning  in  linking 
the  passing  hours  with  Heaven,  thus  making  Time  him- 
self read  aloud  the  gospel  history,  and  converting  the 
seasons  of  the  year  into  a  kind  of  pictorial  Bible  for 
the  poor.  For  it  must  always  be  remembered  that  the 
early  Latin  hymns  were  no  mere  recreations  of  mon- 
astic hterary  retirement,  but  sacred  popular  songs,  in 
a  language,  probably,  as  little  varying  from  the  com- 
mon speech  of  the  people  then,  as  the  book-Italian 
of  to-day  from  the  various  spoken  dialects  of  Milan, 
Genoa,  and  Venice.  They  were  not  merely  read  by 
priests  out  of  missals,  or  chanted  by  elaborate  choirs 
in  cathedrals ;  but,  as  St.  Ambrose  and  St.  Augustine 
tell  us,  were  murmured  by  the  people  at  their  work, 
and  in  their  homes,  and  sung  in  grand  choruses  in  the 
great  congregation."  * 

Let  us  now  recite  a  portion  of  a  funeral  hymn  by 
Prudentius  :  — 

Ah  !  hush  now  your  mournful  complainings, 

Nor  mothers  your  sweet  babes  deplore  ; 
This  death,  we  so  shrink  from,  but  cometh 

The  ruin  of  life  to  restore. 
Who  now  would  the  sculptor's  rich  marble, 

Or  beautiful  sepulchres  crave  ? 
We  lay  them  but  here,  in  their  slumber  : 

This  earth  is  a  couch,  not  a  grave. 

The  seed,  which  we  sow  in  its  weakness, 

In  the  spring  shall  rise  green  from  the  earth  ; 

And  the  dead  we  thus  mournfully  bury, 

In  God's  spring-time  again  shall  shine  forth. 

•  Christian  Life  in  Song. 


^S  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Mother  Earth,  in  thy  soft  bosom  cherish 

Whom  we  lay  to  repose  in  thy  dust ; 
For  precious  these  relics  we  yield  thee  ; 

Be  faithful,  O  Eartii  !  to  thy  trust. 
The  happy  and  just  times  are  coming, 

When  God  every  hope  shall  fulfil ; 
And  visibly  then  must  thou  render 

What  now  in  thy  keeping  lies  still. 

In  parting  company  with  the  Greek  and  early  Latin 
hymnists,  we  cannot,  perhaps,  better  close  our  first 
evening's  talk,  than  by  quoting  a  passage  from  a  valu- 
able work,  to  which  we  may  have  often  to  refer,  and 
which  we  now  take  the  liberty  to  commend  to  the  no- 
tice of  the  reader.*  We  have  thus  sought  to  trace  the 
stream  from  its  fountain  source  to  the  fourth  Christian 
century ;  and  thus  far  it  seems  to  have  preserved  its 
purity.  These  spiritual  songs  are  fragrant  with  the 
aroma  of  that  "Name  which  is  above  every  name." 
There  is  in  them  the  healthy,  upward  tendency  of 
early  times.  "They  seek  rather  to  pierce  the  heavens 
to  Christ,  than  to  dive  into  the  heart  for  emotion.  One 
glorious  Person  shines  above  and  through  them  all. 
The  Arian  controversy,  whilst  it  brought  forth  a  quan- 
tity of  vain  subtleties  and  bitter  words,  rang  from 
the  true  metal  a  sound  clearer  than  it  had  3'ielded  be- 
fore. It  brought  up  from  the  old  mine  many  a  jewel 
for  the  crown  of  Him  who  is  'King  of  kings.'  It 
struck  from  the  heart  of  the  true  Church  many  an 
adoring  hymn  to  her  Lord.  And  in  those  early  Latin 
hymns  is  there  not  a  clearer  utterance  of  the  great 
truth  of  the  Cross,  —  the  truth  which  sustains  the  heart 
in  life  and  death, — than  even  in  the  early  Oriental 
hymns?     The  trust  in  the  Lamb  of  God,  smitten  for 

•  Cliristian  Life  in  Sons;. 


BIBLICAL,    GREEK,    AND    EARLY    LATIN.  39 

our  transgressions,  and  bearing  away  our  sins,  does, 
indeed,  shine  through  the  Oriental  hymns  ;  but  is  it  not 
more  pervading  and  glowing  in  the  Ambrosian  ?"  Even 
in  the  divided  stream  of  the  Christian  psalmody 
of  these  earliest  ages  of  the  Church,  the  music  has 
been  very  delicious  to  us,  of  the  latest;  and  in  many  a 
time  of  sadness  and  unrest,  these  sweet  hymns  of 
faith-  and  hope  will  perchance  prove  to  our  hearts  as 
heavenly  balm. 


SECOND    EVENING. 


MEDIEVAL      LATIN. 


SECOND     EVENING. 


MEDIEVAL   LATIN. 

"\T  7E  now  approach  the  border-land  which  divides 
'  '  the  ancient  civilization  from  the  modern,  —  that 
long,  dark  interval  of  ten  centuries,  from  the  sixth 
to  the  sixteenth  of  the  Christian  era,  usually  desig- 
nated the  mediaeval  ages.  Notwithstanding  the  almost 
universal  moral  defection  which  then  prevailed,  there 
existed,  in  strange  contrast,  an  indestructible  life,  the 
life  of  faith,  in  a  succession  of  noble  and  heroic 
Christian  men  and  women,  the  light  of  whose  self- 
denying  charities  illuminated  the  surrounding  dark- 
ness with  a  celestial  radiance.  It  was,  indeed, 
Christianity  in  the  cloister ;  but  it  was  Christianity 
based  upon  love  to  God  and  love  to  man. 

It  has  been  well  said,  "that  this  border-land  had  its 
rich  and  wild  'border  minstrelsy,' — as  fertile  of  won- 
ders to  us,  as  it  was  barren  of  rest  and  comfort  to 
those  who  lived  in  it.  Mediaeval  legend  takes  wing 
from  thence,  as  from  the  heroic  ages  of  modern 
Christendom.  Its  heroes  are  canonized  saints,  —  an 
army  counted  and  memorialized  by  its  tens  of  thou- 
sands." * 


44  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

There  are  three  clerical  magnates  whose  names 
greet  us  on  the  threshold  of  this  epoch,  —  Gregory  the 
Great,  Venantius  Fortunatus,  and  the  venerable  Bede. 
Some  faint  idea  of  the  fearful  desolation  and  distress 
that  then  prevailed  throughout  the  civilized  world 
may  be  gleaned  from  the  following  extracts  from  a 
sermon  by  Gregory  the  Great,  then  bishop  of  Rome 
Ca.d.  590)  :  — 

"Those  saints,"  he  says,  "on  whose  graves  we 
stand,  had  hearts  exalted  enough  to  despise  the  world 
in  its  bloom.  .  .  .  Once  the  world  enchained  us  by 
its  charms ;  now,  it  is  so  full  of  miser}^,  that  of  itself 
it  points  us  to  God.  Everywhere  do  we  see  mourn- 
ing, everywhere  do  we  hear  sighs.  The  cities  are 
destroyed,  the  castles  are  ruined,  the  fields  are  laid 
waste,  the  whole  land  is  desolate." 

Yes :  amidst  all  this  social  and  political  disorder 
and  desolation,  caused  mainly  by  Goth  and  Saracen, 
there  yet  beamed  forth  the  light  of  Christian  faith  in 
the  heart  of  many  a  valiant  soldier  of  the  cross,  — 
Christian  heroes  !  men  of  moral  might  and  spiritual 
prowess,  who  stood  for  the  truth  unto  the  death.  We 
are  in  quest,  however,  not  so  much  of  the  story  of 
t^ei'r  lives,  as  of  those  whose  lyric  bursts  of  holy  song 
mark  so  beautifully  the  tidal  flow  of  Christian  life. 

Like  Ambrose,  Gregory  was  of  a  patrician  Roman 
family;  and  although  possessed  of  an  ample  fortune, 
he  abandoned  all  worldly  ambition  and  retired  into  a 
monastery.  In  becoming  a  monk,  however,  he  does 
not  seem  to  have  fled  from  the  active  to  the  contempla- 
tive life,  but  rather  to  have  entered  into  a  higher 
sphere  of  activity.  He  founded  six  monasteries,  —  one 
in  his  father's  palace  at  Rome ;  and  of  one  of  these  he 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  45 

became  Abbot.  He  earnestly  commended  to  both 
clergy  and  laity  the  study  of  the  sacred  Scriptures. 
He  said  the  sacred  words  should,  by  constant  inter- 
course, penetrate  into  our  being.  "  God  does  not  now 
answer  us  by  angelic  ministrations,"  he  continues,  "or 
special  prophetic  voices,  because  the  holy  Scriptures 
include  all  that  is  necessary  to  meet  individual  cases, 
and  are  constructed  so  as  to  mould  the  life  of  later 
times  by  the  example  of  the  earlier.  The  answer, 
'  -^^y  grace  is  sufficient  for  thee,'  was  given  to  Paul, 
that  it  need  not  be  particularly  repeated  to  each  one 
of  us." 

Gregory  was  a  man  for  the  times  in  which  he  lived. 
Shut  up  in  Rome,  with  savage  hordes  at  the  gates, 
and  pestilence,  famine,  and  flood  within  ;  with  heresy 
in  the  provinces,  and  the  care  of  every  department 
weighing  heavily  upon  him  at  home  ;  he  never  "bated 
jot  of  heart  or  hope,"  but  met  every  demand  in  turn  ; 
...  in  the  pulpit,  passionately  rousing  his  flock  to 
spiritual  life  and  action ;  in  the  cloisters,  keeping  his 
monks  to  their  discipline  ;  or  in  his  closet,  writing 
"morals"  on  the  book  of  Job;  or  keeping  up  a  wide 
correspondence  with  kings  and  queens,  ecclesiastics 
and  scholars.  Then,  in  the  choir,  reforming  the 
church  service,  and  giving  that  musical  impulse  to 
the  Christian  world  which  will  be  felt  as  long  as  the 
"  Gregorian  Chant"  condnues  to  charm  a  human  soul.* 

A  fac-simile  volume  of  the  manuscript  music  of  the 
bishop  was  published  at  Paris  in  1850,  from  the  origi- 
nal, discovered  a  few  years  ago  at  the  Benedictine 
Monastery  at  St.  Gall,  a  copy  of  which  is  in  the  Astor 
Library. 

*  Christophers'  Hymn-wnters. 


46  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

When  elected  to  the  Papal  chair,  Gregory  selected 
a  missionary  band  of  nearly  forty  monks ;  and,  in  the 
year  596,  sent  them,  with  many  exhortations  and 
blessings,  to  the  coast  of  Kent.  "England  still  reaps 
the  fruit  of  his  success;  and,  it  may  be,  records  her 
early  sense  of  obligation  to  Gregory  in  her  national 
legend  of  '  St.  George  [or  St.  Gregory]  and  the 
Dragon.'  Paganism  (the  '  Dragon'),  in  England,  fell 
before  the  cross  ;  and  the  ultimate  result  of  Augus- 
tine's mission  was  the  establishment  of  a  Saxon 
church,  which,  for  many  generations,  exemplified  the 
purity  and  power  of  the  Christian  faith.  .  .  .  Many 
a  choral  chant  and  many  a  grand  old  Latin  hymn 
floated,  across  the  channel  from  the  churches  of  Italy 
and  Gaul  to  the  Saxon  church."* 

The  celebrated  hymn,  "  Vcni,  Creator  Spiritus,"  — 
the  authorship  of  which  has  been  hitherto  ascribed  to 
Gregory  the  Great,  or  to  Charlemagne,  is  now  ascer- 
tained to  have  been  written  by  Rabanus  Maurus,  Bishop 
of  Mayence,  A.D.  856.  The  advocates  of  the  claims  of 
the  Emperor  to  its  authorship  rested  their  plea  on  the 
testimony  of  his  secretary,  to  the  effect  that  Charle- 
magne could  speak  the  Latin  language  almost  as  easily 
as  his  own.  And,  further,  that  he  addressed  a  letter  to 
his  bishops,  entitled  "  De  Gratia  Scptiformis  Spiritus." 
Whereas  those  who  believe,  witii  the  German  critic, 
Mon^,  that  it  was  the  production  of  St.  Gregory, 
seemed  to  have  had  the  burden  of  proof  in  their  favor. 
Gregory's  homilies  and  other  writings,  his  admitted 
scholarship  and  eminent  piety,  were  regarded  as  strong 
presumptive  evidences  that  he  wrote  the  hymn.  Char- 
lemagne  was    a   soldier,    Gregory   a   monk ;   what   the 

*  Cliristophers'  Hymn-writers. 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN. 


47 


sword  was  to  the  former,  the  pen  was  to  the  latter. 
Dryden's  beautiful  paraphrase  of  this  hymn  is  familiar 
to  most  readers.  There  is  another  version  no  less 
fine,  beginning, — 

Come,  Holy  Ghost,  our  souls  inspire, 
And  lighten  with  celestial  fire  ! 
Thou  the  anointing  Spirit  art, 
Who  dost  Thy  seven-fold  gifts  impart. 

This  grand  h3-mn  has  always  been  invested  with 
peculiar  dignity  :  not  onl}^  is  it  retained  in  the  Episco- 
pal Pra3'er-book  for  the  ordaining  of  priests  and  the 
consecrating  of  bishops,  but  it  was,  also,  in  earlier 
times,  habitually  used  —  and  the  use  in  great  part  still 
survives  —  on  all  other  occasions  of  extraordinary  so- 
lemnity, as  at  the  coronation  of  kings  and  the  celebra- 
tion of  synods  by  the  Protestant  Church  ;  and  by  the 
Romish,  at  the  creation  of  popes,  and  other  great 
occasions. 

Contemporar}^  with  Gregory  the  Great,  was  Venan- 
tius  Fortunatus,  the  writer  of  some  hymns  "which 
have  taken  root  in  the  heart  of  Christendom,  and 
have  been  chanted  often,  doubtless,  with  deep  and 
solemn  feeling,  during  many  centuries."*  The  "Vex- 
illa  regis  prodeunt,"  "  Pange,  lingua,  gloriosi,"  and 
the  "  Salve,  festa  Dies,"  are  pronounced  by  Dr.  Mason 
Neale  as  belonging  to  the  first  class  of  mediaeval 
hymns  ;  yet  compared  with  the  grand  old  battle- songs 
of  Ambrose,  they  have  too  much  of  the  glitter  of  the 
tournament  on  them ;  yet  are  they  full  of  pathos. 

Fortunatus  was  an  Italian  by  birth,  yet  his  life  was, 
for  the  most  part,  spent  in  Gaul.  He  was  born  in  the 
year  530,  and  died  a.d.   609.     He  was  appointed  to 


48  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

preside  over  a  monastic  institution  at  Poictiers,  found- 
ed by  Queen  Rhadegunda.  His  finest  poem  is  con- 
sidered to  be  his  "  De  Cruce  Christi." 

We  give  a  part  of  Mrs.  Charles's  fine  rendering  of 
the  "Pange,  hngua,  gloriosi :  "  — 

Spread,  my  tongue,  the  wondrous  story  of  the  glorious  battle,  far ! 
What  the  trophies  and  the  triumphs  of  the  cross  of  Jesus  are,— 
How  the  Victim,  immolated,  vanquished  in  that  mighty  war. 
Pitying,  did  the  great  Redeemer  Adam's  fall  and  ruin  see. 
Sentenced  then  to  death  by  tasting  fruit  of  the  forbidden  tree, 
And  he  marked  that  wood  the  weapon  of  redeeming  love  to  be. 
Thus  the  scheme  of  our  redemption  was  of  old  in  order  laid, 
Thus  the  wily  arts  were  baffled  of  the  foe  who  man  betrayed, 
And  the  armor  of  redemption  from  Death's  armory  was  made. 

The  following  is  a  free  rendering  from  the  Latin,  of 
his  hymn  on  the  Resurrection, — "Salve,  festa  Dies." 
"In  this  sweet  poem,"  writes  Professor  SchafF,  "all 
nature,  born  anew  in  the  spring,  and  arrayed  in  the 
bridal  garment  of  hope  and  promise,  welcomes  the 
risen  Saviour,  the  Prince  of  spiritual  and  eternal 
life." 

Hail,  Day  of  days  !  m  peals  of  praise. 

Throughout  all  ages  owned. 
When  Christ,  our  God,  hell's  empire  trod, 

And  high  o'er  heaven  was  throned. 
This  glorious  morn  the  world  new-born 

In  rising  beauty  shows  ; 
How,  with  her  Lord  to  life  restored, 

Her  gifts  and  graces  rose  ! 
The  spring  serene,  in  sparkling  sheen, 

The  flower-clad  earth  arrays  ; 
Heaven's  portal  bright,  its  radiant  light, 

In  fuller  flood  displays  ; 
From  hell's  deep  gloom,  from  earth's  dark  tomb, 

The  Lord  in  triumph  soars  ! 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  49 

The  forests  raise  their  leafy  praise, 

The  flowery  field  adores. 
As,  star  by  star,  He  mounts  afar ; 

And  hell  imprisoned  lies. 
Let  stars  and  light,  and  depth  and  height, 

In  hallelujahs  rise ! 
Lo  !  He  who  died,  —  the  Crucified  !  — 

God  over  all.  He  reigns  ! 
On  Him  we  call.  His  servants  all. 

Who  heaven  and  earth  sustains  ! 

In  liis  famous  processional  hymn,  "Vexilla  regis  pro- 
deunt,"  as  well  as  in  his  hymn  already  cited,  may  be 
seen  the  worship  of  the  cross,  which  has  so  long 
characterized  the  Papal  Church.  We  therefore  cite 
only  the  opening  stanza  of  this  processional  hymn  :  — 

The  royal  banners  forward  go. 
The  Cross  shines  forth  in  mystic  glow, 
Where  He  in  flesh,  our  flesh  who  made, 
Our  sentence  bore,  our  ransom  paid  ! 

A  yet  more  startling  instance  of  the  idolatry  of  the 
cross  occurs  in  the  famous  old  Latin  chant  for  Good 
Friday,  entitled  "  O  Crux  fidelis  !  "  It  illustrates  the 
fact,  that  from  the  symbolism  of  the  cross  came  the 
grosser  superstition,  which  descended  to  far  lower 
depths,  till  the  supposed  wood  of  the  cross  was  wor- 
shipped ;  thus  transferring  the  homage  due  to  the 
crucified  One,  to  the  cross  itself! 

Bede,  styled  the  Venerable,  for  the  sanctity  of  his 
character,  was  born  a.d.  672,  and  died  in  735.  His 
remains  lie  buried  near  the  altar  of  Durham  Ca- 
thedral. When  only  seven  years  old,  he  was  taken 
to  the  monastery  of  Yarrow.  "There  he  read  and 
wrote  and  prayed,  and  sang  hymns  to  his  Saxon  harp, 
and  recorded  the  history  of  his  people."  The  last 
4 


5©  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

work  of  his  busy,  tranquil  life,  was  a  Saxon  version 
of  St.  John's  Gospel ;  finishing  it  amidst  the  suffer- 
ings of  his  last  illness,  and  completing  the  work  just 
as  he  closed  his  eyes  in  death.  The  details  of  his  last 
hours  are  replete  with  pathetic  interest :  "  They  all 
wept,  chiefly  for  tliat  he  said  that  in  this  world  they 
should  see  his  face  no  more ;  but  they  rejoiced  in  thai 
he  said,  '  I  go  to  my  Creator :  I  have  lived  long 
enough :  the  time  of  my  departure  is  at  hand ;  for  I 
long  to  depart  and  be  with  Christ.'  Thus  did  he  live 
on  till  the  evening.  Then  that  scholar  said  to  him, 
'Dearest  master,  there  is  only  one  thought  left  to 
write.'  He  answered,  'Write  quickly.'  Soon  that 
scholar  replied,  'Now  this  thought  also  is  written.' 
He  answered,  'Thou  hast  well  said,  It  is  finished. 
Raise  my  head  in  thy  hand ;  for  it  will  do  me  good  to 
sit  opposite  my  sanctuary,  where  I  was  wont  to  kneel 
down  to  pray,  that  sitting  I  may  call  upon  my  Father  ! ' 
So  he  seated  himself  on  the  ground  in  his  cell,  and 
sang  the  '  Glory  to  Thee,  O  God,  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Ghost ! '  and  when  he  had  named  the  '  Holy 
Ghost,'  he  breathed  his  last  breath."  Such  was  the 
calm  of  a  Christian's  death-bed  in  England,  eleven 
hundred  years  ago.  This  worthy  Saxon  monk  re- 
flected the  brightest  aspect  of  the  ascetic  life,  in  its 
devout  and  studious  retirement.  It  looks  picturesque 
at  this  distance.  Here  is  the  translation  *  of  one  of 
his  hymns  on  the  "Ascension  of  our  Lord"  ("Hymnum 
canamus  glorias  ")  ;  — 

A  hymn  of  glory  let  us  sing : 

New  hymns  throughout  the  world  shall  ring; 

By  a  new  way,  none  ever  trod, 

Christ  mounteth  to  the  throne  of  God, 

•  Mrs.  Cliarles. 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  $1 

Calm  soaring  through  the  radiant  sky, 
Mounting  its  dazzhng  summits  high  ! 

May  our  affections  thither  tend, 
And  thither  constantly  ascend, — 
Where,  seated  on  the  Father's  throne, 
Thee  reigning  in  the  heavens  we  own; 
And,  as  the  countless  ages  flee. 
May  all  our  glory  be  in  Thee  ! 

A  notable  and  worthy  name  now  meets  us  in  the 
order  of  time,  —  that  of  Bernard,  Abbot  of  Clair- 
vaux,  a  monastery  which  he,  in  company  with  a 
dozen  other  monks,  founded  and  built.  After  many 
months  of  laborious  toil  and  self-denial,  the  new 
Abbey  at  length  was  reared,  to  the  sound  of  sacred 
song,  on  a  spot  which  had  been  previously  the  haunt 
of  banditti.  Bernard  was  born,  a.d.  1091,  at  Fon- 
taines, near  Dijon,  of  a  knightly  family.  His  early 
training  was  attended  by  his  mother,  the  Lady  Aletta  ; 
and  its  influence  seems  to  have  accompanied  him 
through  life,  so  that  his  monastery  had  much  of  the 
nature  of  a  home.  After  he  left  his  father's  vine- 
yards and  corn-fields  in  Burgundy  for  his  monastery, 
five  of  his  brothers  soon  followed  him ;  and  they 
thus  became  a  band  of  six  brothers,  again  under  one 
roof, — that  of  their  monastery.  In  early  youth,  he 
acquired  so  perfect  a  knowledge  of  the  Latin,  that 
he  could  preach  extempore  in  that  language  with  as 
much  ease  as  his  native  tongue.  Bernard's  favorite 
oratory  was  a  woodland  bower,  —  a  quiet  vernal  re- 
treat in  an  adjacent  valley  ;  and  here  he  composed  his 
hymns,  and  sang  them.  He  lived  not  only  in  great 
harmony  with  the  little  community  over  which  he  pre- 
sided, but  his  beautiful  character  attracted  the  ardent 


52       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

admiration  and  loving  esteem  of  all  who  knew  him  : 
among  whom  was  "  Peter  the  Venerable,"  Abbot  of  the 
monastery  of  Clugny,  who  declared  that  he  "had 
rather  pass  his  life  with  Bernard,  than  enjoy  all  the 
kingdoms  of  the  world."  His  heart  seems  to  have 
been  full  of  love,  and  his  hands  full  of  good  works. 
His  dying  counsel  to  his  monks  was,  "to  abound  more 
and  more  in  every  good  work  ;  "  and  as  they  stood 
lovingly  around  his  couch,  unable  to  restrain  their 
grief,  his  own  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  he  murmured 
faintly,  '  I  am  in  a  strait  betwixt  two,  having  a  desire 
to  depart  and  be  with  Christ,  which  is  far  better;' 
nevertheless,  the  love  of  my  children  urgeth  me  to 
remain  here  below."  These  were  his  last  words  on 
earth  ;  but  his  sweet  spiritual  songs  still  live  in  many 
a  Christian  heart. 

Let  us  now  rehearse  some  of  his  sweet  lines,  trans- 
lated into  our  vernacular  :  — 

Jesus,  Thou  joy  of  loving  hearts  ! 

Thou  Fount  of  hfe  !  Thou  Light  of  men  ! 
From  the  best  bliss  that  earth  imparts, 

We  turn,  unfilled,  to  Thee  again. 
Thy  truth  unchanged  hath  ever  stood  ; 

Thou  savest  those  that  on  Thee  call ; 
To  them  that  seek  Thee,  Thou  art  good; 

To  them  that  find  Thee,  all  in  all ! 
We  taste  Thee,  O  Thou  Living  Bread ! 

And  long  to  feast  upon  Thee  still ; 
We  drink  of  Thee,  the  Fountain-head, 

And  thirst  our  souls  from  Thee  to  fill. 
Our  restless  spirits  yearn  for  Thee, 

Where'er  our  changeful  lot  is  cast ; 
Glad,  when  Thy  gracious  smile  we  see  ; 

Blest,  when  our  faith  can  hold  Thee  fast 
O  Jesus,  ever  with  us  stay  ! 

Make  all  our  moments  calm  and  bright; 
Chase  the  dark  niglit  of  sin  away. 

Shed  o'er  the  world  Thy  holy  light. 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  53 

The  above,  which  is  a  beautiful  translation  of  parts 
of  Bernard's  famous  hymn,  "Jesus,  dulcedo  cordium," 
by  Dr.  Ray  Palmer,  of  New  York,  has  been  fre- 
quently copied,  and  recently  it  has  been  incorporated 
into  Sir  Roundell  Palmer's  "Book  of  Praise." 

The  great  and  good  Bernard  was,  however,  an 
ascetic  of  the  severest  order.  Luther  called  him  "  the 
best  monk  that  ever  lived."  He  was  one  of  the  most 
renowned  theologians  of  his  age ;  having,  at  the  in- 
stance of  the  reigning  pontiff,  been  hailed  as  "  the 
champion  of  the  orthodoxy  of  his  day,"  in  conse- 
quence of  his  triumph  over  the  rationalistic  Abelard, 
in  a  discussion  at  Sens,  in  1140.  But  he  is  most 
endeared  to  us  of  modern  times,  by  his  sacred  lyrics, 
which  are  yet  held  in  just  esteem.  We  can  only  give 
the  titles  of  the  most  renowned  :  "  Salve  Caput  cruen- 
tatum"  (Hail !  Thou  Head  so  bruised  and  wounded)  , 
"Jesu,  dulcis  memoria"  (O  Jesus  !  Thy  sweet  memo- 
ry) ;  and  "Jesu,  Rex  admirabilis  "  (O  Jesus  !  King 
most  wonderful).  Mrs.  Charles  has  made  so  excel- 
lent a  translation  of  the  first-named,  that  we  are 
tempted  to  present  a  portion  of  the  poem  to  the 
reader :  — 

Hail,  Thou  Head  !  so  bruised  and  wounded, 
With  the  crown  of  thorns  surrounded, 
Smitten  with  the  mocking  reed, 
Wounds  which  may  not  cease  to  bleed, 

TrickHng  faint  and  slow. 
Hail !  from  whose  most  blessed  brow 
None  can  wipe  the  blood-drops  now ; 
All  the  flower  of  life  has  fled, 
Mortal  paleness  there  instead  ; 
Thou,  before  whose  presence  dread 

Angels  trembling  bow ! 


54  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Let  me  true  communion  know 
With  Thee,  in  Thy  sacred  woe,  — 
Counting  all  beside  but  dross, 
Dying  with  Thee  on  Thy  cross  : 

'Neath  it  will  I  die  ! 
Thanks  to  Thee  with  every  breath, 
Jesus,  for  Thy  bitter  death  : 
Grant  Thy  guilty  one  this  prayer,  — 
When  my  dying  hour  is  near, 

Gracious  God  be  nigh  ! 

Several  instances  are  on  record,  of  the  comfort  thia 
hymn  has  afforded  Christians  at  the  time  of  death.  It 
was  especially  such  an  evangel  in  the  case  of  the  mis- 
sionary Schwartz,  whom  the  native  Christians  in  India 
solaced,  by  singing  it  in  their  own  Tamil,  into  which 
language  it  had  been  translated.  Bernard's  other 
noted  "  passion-hymn  "  is  entitled  "  Ad  faciem  Christi 
in  cruce  pendentis ; "  which  has  been  rendered  into 
German  by  Gerhardt,  and  into  English  by  Alexander 
and  others.  Bernard  died,  a.d.  1153,  aged  sixty-two. 
His  last  words  were,  "For  ever  with  the  Lord."  His 
first,  or  some  of  his  first  converts,  were  his  own 
father,  brothers,  and  personal  friends.  He  closed  his 
father's  eyes  in  peace,  and  then  had  to  witness  his 
brother  Gerard's  departure  to  his  rest.  His  touching 
lamentation  over  him  is  replete  with  pathos  and  poetic 
beauty.  "Who  could  ever  have  loved  me  as  he  did  ?  He 
was  a  brother  by  blood,  but  far  more  by  religion.  .  .  . 
God  grant,  Gerard,  I  may  not  have  lost  thee,  but  that 
thou  hast  preceded  me ;  for  of  a  surety  thou  hast 
joined  those  whom  in  thy  last  night  below  thou  didst 
invite  to  praise  God ;  when  suddenly,  to  the  great  sur- 
prise of  all,  thou,  with  a  serene  countenance  and  a 
cheerful  voice,  didst  commence  chanting,  'Praise  ye 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN. 


55 


tlie  Lord,  from  the  heaven  ;  praise  Him,  all  ye  angels  ! 
At  that  moment,  O  my  brother !  the  day  dawned  on 
thee,  though  it  was  night  to  us ;  the  night  to  thee  was 
all  brightness.  Just  as  I  reached  his  side,  I  heard 
him  utter  aloud  those  words  of  Christ,  'Father,  into 
Thine  hands  I  commend  my  spirit ! '  Then  repeating 
the  verse  over  again,  and  resting  on  the  word  'Father,' 
he  turned  to  me,  and,  smiling,  said,  'Oh,  how  gracious 
of  God  to  be  the  Father  of  men,  and  what  an  honor 
for  men  to  be  His  children.'  And  then,  very  dis- 
tinctly, 'If  children,  then  heirs;'  and  so  he  died:  and 
so  dying,  lie  well-nigh  changed  my  grief  into  rejoic- 
ing, so  completely  did  the  sight  of  his  happiness  over- 
power the  recollection  of  my  own  misery." 

St.  Bernard  left  his  mark  upon  his  age  :  he  was  its 
governing  spirit;  a  man  who  more  than  once  scorned 
to  be  archbishop ;  who  dictated  to  kings,  and  wrote  a 
manual  for  the  "  infallible  Head  of  the  Church ;  "  who 
projected  a  crusade,  and  "uttered  prophecies,"  &c. 
He  was  a  mighty  man  of  learning  in  his  day,  and  his 
time  outlasted  several  centuries;  for,  after  his  death, 
"  he  made  a  mark  on  the  ages  as  they  passed  over  his 
tomb,  and  the  Church  long  bore  the  impress  of  his 
gigantic  spirit."  But  his  grim  folios  of  polemical  and 
dogmatic  theology  are  no  longer  consulted  by  the  schol- 
ars of  our  time. 

Another  renowned  ecclesiastic  of  the  same  name 
—  Bernard,  of  Cluny  —  was  contemporary  with  the 
Abbot  of  Clairvaux.  Cluny  Abbey  was  the  greatest  in 
France,  and  the  monk  was  of  yet  greater  celebrity 
than  the  Abbey.  His  great  poem,  of  three  thousand 
lines,  is  entitled  "  De  contemptu  mundi."  This 
poem,  by  some  critics,  has  been  ascribed  to  Jacobus 


56  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

de  Benedictus ;  but  we  leave  this  question  with  them 
to  determine.  This  production  was  written  about  the 
year  1145.  It  is  a  severe  satire  on  the  vices  of  the 
times  ;  but  it  also  is  one  of  the  sweetest  religious  poems 
of  the  age  in  which  it  was  written,  or  of  any  age. 
Many  a  cloistered  monk  took  up  the  soul-stirring 
theme,  and  sang  anew  the  glory-song  of  the  new  Jeru- 
salem. Such  winged  thoughts  visited  many  a  mo- 
nastic cell ;  but,  among  their  inmates,  none  has  set 
them  to  sweeter  music  than  the  saintly  monk  of  Cluny. 
From  Dr.  Neale's  masterly  translation  of  this  poem, 
we  select  some  of  its  expressive  lines,  —  lines,  per- 
haps, unparalleled  for  their  energy,  fervor,  and  sub- 
limity :  — 

That  peace,  —  but  who  may  claim  it  ?     The  guileless  in  their  way, 

Who  keep  the  ranks  of  battle,  who  mean  the  thing  they  say,  — 

The  peace  that  is  for  heaven,  and  shall  be  for  the  earth  ; 

The  palace  that  re-echoes  with  festal  song  and  mirth  ; 

The  garden,  breathing  spices,  —  the  paradise  on  high  ; 

Grace  beautified  to  glory,  unceasing  minstrelsy. 

There  nothing  can  be  feeble,  there  none  can  ever  mourn, 

There  nothing  is  divided,  there  nothing  can  be  torn  ; 

'Tis  fury,  ill,  and  scandal,  'tis  peaceless  peace,  below : 

Peace  endless,  strifeless,  ageless,  the  halls  of  Syon  know ! 

Strive,  man,  to  win  that  glory ;  toil,  man,  to  gain  that  light ; 
Send  hope  before  to  grasp  it,  till  hope  be  lost  in  sight ! 

Brief  life  is  here  our  portion,  brief  sorrow,  short-lived  care  : 
The  life  that  knows  no  ending,  the  tearless  hfe,  is  there  ! 

Thou  hast  no  shore,  fair  Ocean  !  thou  hast  no  time,  bright  Day  I 

Dear  fountain  of  refreshment  to  pilgrims  far  away  ! 

Upon  the  Rock  of  Ages  they  raise  thy  holy  tower  ; 

Thine  is  the  victor's  laurel,  and  thine  the  golden  dower ! 

Jerusalem  the  golden,  witli  milk  and  honey  blest, 

Beneath  thy  contemplation  sink  heart  and  voice  oppressed  1 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  57 

I  know  not,  oh,  I  know  not,  what  social  joys  are  there  ! 
What  radiancy  of  glory,  what  light  beyond  compare  ! 

They  stand,  those  halls  of  Syon,  conjubilant  with  song, 
And  bright  with  many  an  angel,  and  all  the  martyr-throng ; 

There  is  the  throne  of  David,  and  there,  from  care  released, 
The  song  of  them  that  triumph,  the  shout  of  them  that  feast ; 
And  they  who,  with  their  Leader,  have  conquered  in  the  fight. 
For  ever  and  for  ever  are  clad  in  robes  of  white  ! 

New  mansion  of  new  people,  whom  God's  own  love  and  light 

Promote,  increase,  make  holy,  identify,  unite  ! 

Thou  city  of  the  angels  !  thou  city  of  the  Lord  ! 

Whose  everlasting  music  is  the  glorious  decachord  ! 

And  there  the  band  of  prophets  united  praise  ascribes, 

And  there  the  twelvefold  charms  of  Israel's  ransomed  tribes. 

The  lily-beds  of  virgins,  the  roses'  martyr-glow, 

The  cohort  of  the  Fathers,  who  kept  the  faith  below. 

And  there  the  Sole-begotten  is  Lord  in  regal  state,  — 

He,  Judah's  mystic  Lion,  —  He,  Lamb  Immaculate  ! 

O  fields  that  know  no  sorrow  !  O  state  that  fears  no  strife  ! 

O  princely  bowers  !  O  land  of  flowers  !  O  realm  and  home  of  life  ! 

A  sacred  charm  seems  to  pervade  these  majestic, 
soul-stirring  stanzas,  they  bring  the  hallowed  beatific 
vision  so  vividly  before  us ;  while  the  poem  abounds 
with  rich  imagery  and  glowing  beauty.  It  was  said 
of  this  hymn,  that  it  brought  heaven  nearer  to  us  ;  and 
that  the  depai'ting  spirit  has  felt  its  uplifting  power, 
even  on  the  threshold  of  its  home.  So  it  was  with  the 
little  sufferer  mentioned  by  Dr.  Neale  in  his  notes 
upon  Bernard.  He  says,  "Thankful  am  I  that  the 
Cluniac's  verses  should  have  soothed  the  dying  hours 
of  many  of  God's  servants.  The  most  striking  in- 
stance of  which  I  know,  is  that  of  the  child,  who,  when 
suffering  agonies  which  the  medical  attendants  declared 
to  be  almost  unparalleled,  would  lie,  without  a  mur- 


58       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

mur  or  motion,  while  the  whole  four  hundred  lines 
(of  the  translation)  were  read  to  him."  It  was  the 
same  pious  recluse  that  wrote  these  comforting,  quick- 
ening lines,  who  was  accustomed  to  walk  with  his 
brother-monks  in  the  cloisters,  or  in  the  groves,  or 
retreats  of  his  order,  who  would  sometimes  stop,  and 
say  to  them,  "Dear  brethren,  I  must  go:  there  is 
some  one  waiting  for  me  in  my  cell."  That  "some 
one,"  it  need  hardly  be  stated,  w^as  the  object  of  his 
devout  affection,  —  his  Lord  and  Saviour.  "The 
name  of  Jesus,"  says  Bernard,  "is  not  only  light,  but 
food;  it  is  likewise  oil,  without  which  all  the  food  of 
the  soul  is  dry ;  it  is  salt,  unseasoned  by  which,  what- 
ever is  presented  to  us  is  insipid ;  it  is  honey  in  the 
mouth,  melody  in  the  ear,  joy  in  the  heart,  medicine 
in  the  soul ;  and  there  are  no  charms  in  any  discourse 
in  which  His  name  is  not  heard." 

Adam  of  St.  Victor,  who  was  a  contemporary 
of  Bernard,  has  been  regarded  as  the  most  fertile 
of  the  hymnists  of  mediaeval  times  ;  a  native  of 
Brittany,  or,  as  some  critics  think,  of  Britain.  Yet 
from  the  fact  that  the  great  seat  of  Latin  poetry,  in  the 
twelfth  century,  was  France,  it  is  fair  to  infer  that 
Adam,  one  of  the  chief  of  the  band  of  clerical  scribes, 
had  his  birth  among  the  French.  Hildebert,  the  two 
Bernards,  and  Peter  the  Venerable,  were  French  ;  and 
the  religious  foundation  of  St.  Victor,  —  then  in  the 
suburbs,  and  afterwards  included  within  the  walls  of 
the  city,  —  it  was  here  he  lived  and  died.  The  year 
of  his  death  is  not  ascertained,  but  is  believed  to  have 
been  between  1173  and  1194.  His  epitaph,  engraven 
on  a  plate  of  copper  in  the  cloister  of  St.  Victor,  re- 
mained till  the  general  destruction  during  the  French 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  59 

Revolution.  Archbishop  Trench  remarks,  "  It  is  im- 
possible to  doubt  that  Adam  of  St.  Victor  partook  to 
the  full  of  the  theological  culture  of  the  school  to 
which  he  belonged;  for  this,  indeed,  is  evident  from 
his  hymns,  which  have  oftentimes  as  great  a  theologi- 
cal as  poetical  or  even  devotional  interest ;  the  first, 
indeed,  predominating,  sometimes  to  the  injury  of  the 
last.  .  .  .  He  may  not  have  any  single  poem  to  vie 
with  the  austere  grandeur  of  the  'Dies  Irae,'  nor  yet 
with  the  tearful  passion  of  the  'Stabat  Mater;'  al- 
though, concerning  the  last  point,  there  might  well  be 
a  question,  —  but  then  it  must  be  remembered  these 
stand  alone." 

Adam  of  the  "  religious  house  "  of  St.  Victor  is  be- 
lieved to  have  written  thirty-six  hymns.  Here  are 
some  specimen-lines  of  a  translation.*  The  subject  is 
"Affliction." 

As  the  harp-strings  only  render 

All  their  treasures  of  sweet  sound,  — 
All  their  music,  glad  or  tender, — 

Firmly  struck  and  tightly  bound  ; 
So  the  hearts  of  Christians  owe 

Each  its  deepest,  sweetest  strain 
To  the  pressure  firm  of  woe, 

And  the  tension  tight  of  pain. 
Spices  crushed,  their  puiigence  yield, 

Trodden  scents  their  sweets  respire  ; 
Would  you  have  its  strength  revealed, 

Cast  the  incense  in  the  fire  : 
Thus  the  crushed  and  broken  frame 

Oft  doth  sweetest  graces  yield  ; 
And,  through  suffering,  toil,  and  shame, 
From  the  martyr's  keenest  flame, 
Heavenly  incense  is  distilled  ! 

Dr.  Neale  regards  the  "Sequence"  for  the  "Exalta- 
tion of  the  Cross"  as  his  masterpiece.     It  commences; 

*  Mrs.  Charles's. 


bo  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Be  the  Cross  our  theme  and  story, 
We  who  in  the  Cross's  glory 

Shall  exult  for  evermore. 
By  the  Cross  the  warrior  rises, 
By  the  Cross  the  foe  despises, 

Till  he  gains  the  heavenly  shore  ! 

His  hymn  on  St.  Stephen's  Day  commences,  — 

Yesterday,  the  happy  earth 
Pealed  her  grateful  praises  forth, 

Keeping  Christ's  nativity; 
Yesterday,  the  angel-throng 
Met  the  King  of  heaven  with  song 

And  with  high  festivity. 

Noble  wrestler  !  yield  to  none, 
For  thy  victory  must  be  won  ; 

Stephen,  struggle  bravely  through  ! 
Those  false  witnesses  refute, 
Satan's  synagogue  confute, 

With  thy  holy  speech,  and  true. 

For  that  crown  that  cannot  wither. 

Press  through  these  brief  torments  hither : 

Triumph  shall  reward  thy  strife. 
Death  is  thy  nativity ; 
And  thy  sufferings'  close  shall  be 

The  beginning  of  thy  life  ! 

The  following  beautiful  stanzas  are  part  of  a  trans- 
lation of  the  celebrated  hymn,  "Jam  lucis  orto  si- 
Jere."  It  was  this  hymn  that  was  chanted  by  the 
priesthood,  in  full  choir,  at  the  death-bed  of  William 
the  Conqueror,  in  a.d.  1087.  The  cathedral-bell, 
which  announced  the  hour  of  morning  worship,  — 
just  as  the  sun  was  rising  above  the  horizon,  —  was 
the  signal  for  the  matin-song.  The  monarch  had 
passed  away  from  earth  before  the  singers  had  ceased. 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  6l 

This  admirable  hymn  is  still  sung  in  the  original,  at 
Whitsuntide,  by  the  scholars  of  Winchester  College, 
prior  to  their  vacation.     The  translation  is  as  follows  : 

Now  that  the  sun  is  gleaming  bright, 

Implore  we,  bending  low. 
That  He,  the  uncreated  Light, 

May  guide  us  as  we  go. 
No  sinful  word,  or  deed  of  wrong, 

Nor  thoughts  that  idly  rove. 
But  simple  truth  be  on  our  tongue, 

And  in  our  hearts  be  love. 
And  while  the  hours  in  order  flow, 

O  Christ !  securely  fence 
Our  gates  beleaguered  by  the  foe,  — 

The  gate  of  every  sense. 
And  grant  that  to  Thine  honor.  Lord, 

Our  daily  toil  may  tend  ; 
That  we  begin  it  at  Thy  word, 

And  in  Thy  favor  end  ! 

The  famous  hymn,  "  Veni,  Sancte  Spiritus,"  the  author- 
ship of  which  has  long  been  attributed  to  King  Robert 
II.  of  France,  has  recently  been  discovered  to  have  been 
the  production  of  a  monk  of  lofty  piety  and  learning, 
named  Hermannus  Contractus,  The  Rev.  S.  W.  Dufheld, 
D.D.,  of  Bloomfield,  N.  J.,  is  to  be  credited  with  this  dis- 
covery, as  well  as  with  that  of  the  authorship  of  another 
celebrated  Latin  hymn,  "  Veni,  Creator  Spiritus,"  the 
authorship  of  which  has  been  hitherto  ascribed  to  the 
Emperor  Charlemagne  or  to  Gregory  the  Great.  After 
laborious  search  among  the  learned  authorities  in  the 
Astor  Library,  he  closes  his  statement  in  favor  of  Raba- 
nus  Maurus,  Bishop  of  Mayence.  Rabanus  died  in  856, 
and  the  first  mention  of  the  hymn  is  in  898  A.D.  "  The 
dates  and  the  argument,  internal  and  external,  all  settle 
for  us  henceforth,"  he  adds,  "  the  true  authorship  of  the 
'  Veni,  Creator  Spiritus.'  "    Duffield's  rendering  follows : 


62       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

O  Holy  Ghost,  Creator,  come  ! 

Thy  people's  minds  pervade  ; 
And  fill,  with  Thy  supernal  grace, 

The  souls  which  Thou  hast  made. 

Thou  who  art  called  the  Paraclete, 

The  gift  of  God  most  high, 
Thou  living  fount,  and  fire,  and  love, 

Our  spirits'  pure  ally; 

Thou  seven-fold  giver  of  all  good ; 

Finger  of  God's  right  hand  ; 
Thou  promise  of  the  Father,  rich 

In  words  for  every  land,  — 

Kindle  our  senses  to  a  flame, 

And  fill  our  hearts  with  love, 
And  through  our  bodies'  weakness,  still 

Pass  valor  from  above  ! 

Drive  further  off  our  enemy, 

And  straightway  give  us  peace; 
That,  with  Thyself  as  such  a  guide, 

We  may  from  evil  cease. 

Through  Thee  may  we  the  Father  know, 

And  thus  confess  the  Son; 
For  Thee,  from  both  the  Holy  Ghost, 

We  praise  while  time  shall  run. 

This  splendid  hymn  had  scarcely  been  sung,  when 
the  accents  of  another  notable  singer  burst  upon  the 
ear,  —  Cardinal  Damiani,  bishop  of  Ostia,  said  to 
have  been  a  zealous  reprover  of  the  vices  of  his  time  : 
he  died  in  1071.  The  great  hymn  on  the  Joys  of 
Paradise,  often  attributed  to  Augustine,  is  his.  Here 
it  is  :  — 

In  the  Fount  of  life  perennial  the  parched  heart  its  thirst  would 

slake, 
And  the  soul,  in  flesh  imprisoned,  longs  her  prison-walls  to  break,  — 
Exile,  seeking,  sighing,  yearning,  in  her  fatherland  to  wake. 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  O3 

Who  can  utter  what  the  pleasures  and  the  peace  unbroken  are, 
Where  arise  the  pearly  mansions,  shedding  silvery  light  afar  ; 
Festive  seats,  and  golden  roofs,  which  glitter  like  the  evening-star ! 

There,  the  saints  like  suns  are  radiant,  like  the  sun  at  dawn  they 

glow ; 
Crowned  victors  after  conflict,  all  their  joys  together  flow  ; 
And,  secure,  they  count  the  battles  where  they  fought  the  prostrate 

foe. 
Putting  off  their  mortal  vesture,  in  their  Source  their  souls  they 

steep  ; 
Truth  by  actual  vision  learning,  on  its  form  their  gaze  they  keep ; 
Drinking  from  the  living  Fountain  draughts  of  living  waters  deep. 
Time,  with  all  its  alternations,  enters  not  those  hosts  among ; 
Glorious,  wakeful,  blest,  no  shade  of  chance  or  change  o'er  them  is 

flung ; 
Sickness  cannot  touch  the  deathless  ;  nor  old  age,  the  ever  young! 
There,  their  being  is  eternal  ;  things  that  ceased,  have  ceased  to  be  ; 
All  corruption  there  has  perished  ;  there  they  flourish,  strong  and 

free : 
Thus  mortality  is  swallowed  up  of  Life  eternally ! 

Ever  filled,  and  ever  seeking,  what  they  have  they  still  desire ; 
Hunger,  there,  shall  fret  them  never,  nor  satiety  shall  tire ; 
Still  enjoying  whilst  aspiring,  in  their  joy  they  still  aspire  ! 
There,  the  new  song,  new  for  ever,  those  melodious  voices  sing ; 
Ceaseless  streams  of  fullest  music  through  those  blessed  regions 

ring,— 
Crowned  victors  ever  bringing  praises  worthy  of  the  King  ! 

This  twelfth  century  was  the  great  era  of  the  Cru- 
sades ;  it  was  also  most  vocal  with  these  Christian 
melodies.  From  many  more  of  the  sweet  minstrels 
of  the  monastf.rywe  might  entertain  the  reader's  ear 
with  richest  music;  but  our  limits  necessarily  forbid. 
We  can  only  indicate  by  name  a  few  of  the  leaders  of 
the  great  choir.  There  was  a  long  poem  on  the  suf- 
ferings of  our  Lord,  by  Anselm,  bishop  of  Lucca, 
who  died  1086.  Here  are  the  opening  stanzas  of  the 
English  version  :  — 


64  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Rise,  my  soul,  from  slumber  now,  leave  the  bed  of  sleep ; 
Languor,  torpor,  vanity,  —  all  outside  must  keep  ; 
While  the  heart,  lit  up  within,  with  love's  torches,  glows, 
Dwelling  on  that  wondrous  work,  and  the  Saviour's  woes, 
Reason,  thought,  affections  true,  gather  all  together, 
Not  by  trifles  led  astray,  hither  roam  and  thither ; 
Fancies  wild,  distracting  doubts,  busy  cares,  depart ; 
While  the  sacraments  of  life  pass  before  the  heart. 

Peter  the  Venerable,  Abbot  of  Cluny  (1092-1156) 
wrote  a  celebrated  hymn  on  the  Resurrection  of  our 
Lord,  entitled  "  Mortis  portis  fractis,  fortis."  We 
quote  Mrs.  Charles's  fine  translation  :  — 

Lo  !  the  gates  of  death  are  broken,  and  the  strong  man  armed  is 

spoiled 
Of  his  armor,  which  he  trusted,  by  the  Stronger  Arm  despoiled ! 

Vanquished  is  the  prince  of  hell. 

Smitten  by  the  Cross,  he  fell. 

Thus  God  brought  man  back  to  heaven,  when  he  rose  from  out  the 

grave. 
The  pure,  primal  life  bestowing,  which  creating,  first  He  gave. 
By  the  sufferings  of  his  Maker,  to  His  perfect  Paradise, 
The  first  dweller  thus  returneth  :  wherefore  these  glad  songs  arise. 

Hildebert,  who  in  11 25  became  archbishop  of 
Tours,  wrote  a  notable  hymn  of  over  two  hundred 
lines,  —  an  address  to  "the  Trinity;"  which,  like 
other  productions  of  the  cloister  and  the  stylus,  is 
somewhat  metaphysical,  yet  characterized  by  har- 
mony, grace,  and  terseness.  Thomas  Aquinas  — 
"the  angelic  doctor,"  as  he  has  been  styled  —  com- 
posed those  renowned  sacramental  lyrics,  "Pange 
lingua  gloriosi,"  and  "  Lauda  Sion  Salvatorem:" 
the  last  named,  it  is  said,  he  wrote  at  the  instance  of 
Pope  Urban  IV. 

That  pious  recluse,   Thomas  a  Kempis  (from  the 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  65 

name  of  his  birthplace,  —  Kempin,  in  Holland),  was 
the  author  of  a  fine  Christian  lyric  on  "  The  joys  of 
Heaven."  He  was  born  in  1380,  and  died  in  147 1, 
in  his  ninety-first  year.  He  is  almost  universally 
known  as  the  author  of  that  famous  work,  "The  Imi- 
tation of  Christ ; "  a  book  that  is  cherished  alike  by 
Protestant  and  Catholic,  —  has  been  more  frequently 
reprinted  than  any  other  book,  perhaps,  except  the 
Bible.  It  has  been  translated  into  all  Christian,  and 
some  heathen  languages.  It  is  even  stated  that  a 
copy  of  it  in  Arabic  was  discovered,  by  a  travelling 
monk,  in  the  librarj^  of  a  king  of  Morocco,  which  his 
Moorish  majesty  prized  beyond  all  his  other  books. 
Strange  to  add,  in  the  face  of  all  this  popularity, 
the  authorship  of  this  work  has  been  in  dispute  during 
nearly  four  centuries.  In  France,  the  learned  have 
attributed  the  work  to  John  Gerson,  chancellor  of  the 
University  of  Paris,  who  died  in  1429.  Thomas  a 
Kempis  was  an  excellent  copyist :  his  copy  of  the 
Bible,  the  labor  of  fifteen  years,  was  thought  a  mas- 
terpiece of  calHgraphic  art ;  and,  as  there  is  an  ancient 
manuscript  of  the  work  extant  in  the  library  at  Valen- 
ciennes, it  has  been  inferred  that  he  only  copied  the 
work ;  but  later  research  has  discovered  a  copy  in  the 
library  at  Brussels,  which  bears  the  name  of  Thomas 
a  Kempis,  ten  years  older,  which  determines  the  right 
of  authorship  to  the  pious  recluse  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, canon  of  Utrecht  and  of  Mount  St.  Agnes. 

But  we  digress.  In  speaking  of  this  worthy  ascetic, 
who  had  taught  us  such  exemplary  lessons  in  prose, 
we  had  well-nigh  forgotten  his  hymn  in  which  he 
sings  to  us  so  sweetly  of  the  glories  of  the  heavenly 
state :  — 

5 


66  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

High  the  angel  choirs  are  raising 

Heart  and  voice  in  harmony  ; 
The  Creator-King  still  praising, 

Whom,  in  beauty  there  they  see. 
Sweetest  strains,  from  soft  harps  stealing ; 
Trumpets,  notes  of  triumph  peahng ; 
Radiant  wings,  and  white  stoles  gleaming ; 
Up  the  steeps  of  glory  streaming  : 
Where  the  heavenly  bells  are  ringing 
Holy,  holy,  holy  !  singing 

To  the  mighty  Trinity  ! 
Holy,  holy,  holy  !  crying ; 
For  all  earthly  care  and  sighing 

In  that  city  cease  to  be  ! 
Every  voice  is  there  harmonious, 
Praising  God,  in  hymns  symphonious ; 
Love  each  heart  with  light  enfolding, 
As  they  stand,  in  peace,  beholding 

There  the  Triune  Deity  ! 
Whom  adore  the  seraphim, 

Aye  with  love  eternal  burning ; 
Venerate  the  cherubim. 

To  their  Fount  of  honor  turning; 
Whilst  angelic  thrones  adoring 
Gaze  upon  His  Majesty  ! 

Reverting  back  again,  for  a  moment,  to  the  subject 
of  preaching,  we  might  remark,  that  these  mediaeval 
preachers  were  potent  speakers.  There  are  many 
familiar  enough  to  us  by  name ;  but,  beyond  that,  we 
know  but  little  pertaining  to  their  character  and  public 
service.  Peter  the  Hermit  must  have  been  a  persua- 
sive and  powerful  speaker,  to  sway  such  multitudes  by 
his  words  :  so  must  have  been  the  Bernards  ;  Peter 
the  Venerable  ;  Adam  of  St.  Victor ;  Peter  of  Blois, 
who  became  archdeacon  of  London ;  Guaric  of  Ign- 
iac ;  Hildebert,  archbishop  of  Tours ;  Anthony  of 
Padua,  —  not  to  increase  the  list,  —  whose  popularity, 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  67 

like  that  of  Whitefield  and  the  Wesley s,  obliged  them 
to  preach  in  the  open  field  or  on  the  hillside,  some- 
times having  for  their  audience  not  less  than  thirty 
thousand  eager  listeners  !  It  is  also  pleasant  to  think, 
with  Dr.  Neale,  who  has  reproduced  some  of  these 
medigeval  sermons,  that,  in  many  instances,  they  were 
greatly  in  advance  of  the  prevalent  superstitions  of 
those  times.  It  may  excite  surprise  in  some  to  learn, 
that,  in  early  and  mediaeval  days,  homilies  or  sermons 
were  not  unfrequently  in  verse ;  yet  such  seems  to 
have  been  the  case,  as  far  back  as  the  fourth  century, 
by  Ephrcem  the  Syrian.  Taste  has  somewhat  changed 
since  those  days.  Specimens  of  these  curious  effu- 
sions, of  the  fourteenth  century,  were  reproduced,  re- 
cently, in  Edinburgh,  collated  from  manuscripts  in 
Oxford  and  Cambridge.  We  subjoin  a  brief  speci- 
men of  one  of  these  literary  curiosities  :  it  is  in  the 
Saxon,  as  pure  as  Chaucer. 

Now  see  ye  qui  and  for  quas  sake, 
Crist  com  til  us  our  kind*  to  take; 
His  fust  com  was  bodilye, 
Bot  an  other  est  gastilye.  f 
That  es  quen  Crist  gifes  us  wille, 
His  commandment  to  fulfille  ; 
For  son  quen  me  haf  wil  to  do, 
Al  that  the  preacheour  says  us  to— 
And  feles  our  hearte  in  charite, 
In  sothe  J  ful  siker  may  we  be. 
That  Crist  is  comen  in  til  our  hertes 
GastK,  that  us  til  goodnesse  ertes,  § 
Of  us  self  haf  we  noht  bot  sin, 
Bot  quen  Crist  wirkes  us  wit  in, 
Than  at  the  fust  beginne,  we 
God  cresten  men  for  to  be. 

•  Nature.  t  Spiritual.  t  In  truth.  §  Incline*. 


68       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

"Scarcely  have  the  tones  of  one  hymn  died  away 
before  another  has  been  grandly  swelling  upon  the 
ear  of  Christendom.  In  the  fourteenth  century,  the 
music  of  the  Church  was  becoming  faint.  Truth  was 
sending  out  its  messages  but  in  undertones.  Spiritual 
religion  was  keeping  up  its  struggling  existence  witliin 
narrow  retreats.  But  even  then,  as  in  every  crisis  of 
Christian  history,  there  came  awakening  voices,  such 
as  those  of  Francis  of  Assissi,  and  his  friend  and  biog- 
rapher, Thomas  of  Celano, — one,  the  great  father 
of  itinerant  preaching  friars ;  the  other,  that  hymnist 
whose  one  Judgment  hymn  roused  the  slumbering 
choirs  of  Europe,  and  still  sends  forth  its  deep  and 
solemn  music."  * 

Earnest  and  stirring  as  were  those  many-voiced 
melodies,  re-echoed  back  to  us  from  the  far-distant 
past,  a  yet  more  stately  and  majestic  chant  bursts  now 
upon  our  ear,  with  its  trumpet-like  cadences,  —  in  the 
"Dies  Iras."  This  grand  outburst  is  the  kingliest  of 
them  all.  A  short  but  significant  silence  preceded 
this  great  hymn  of  the  Mediaeval  Church,  which 
seemed  to  usher  it  in  with  the  greater  solemnity.  Its 
tone  is  a  reflex  of  the  theology  of  the  time,  —  austere 
and  severe,  rather  than  loving  and  hopeful.  It  is  a 
single  voice,  —  low,  trembling,  and  penitential ;  yet 
it  breaks  the  stillness,  and  spreads  itself  abroad  over 
Christendom,  awakening  and  thrilling  multitudes  of 
hearts.  This  voice  was  lifted  up  by  one  solitary 
Franciscan  monk,  — Thomas,  of  Celano,  a  Neapolitan 
village,  —  early  in  the  thirteenth  century.  This  cele- 
brated lyric  forms  a  part  of  the  Burial  Service  in  the 
Romish  Missal,  and  is  chanted  in  magnificent  style  al 

*  Christophers'  Hymn-\\Titors. 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  69 

the  great  Sistine  Chapel  at  Rome ;  while  portions  of 
it  enter  into  the  worship  of  a  large  proportion  of  those 
who  "profess  and  call  themselves  Christians."  As  a 
literary  composition,  such  is  its  wondrous  fascination, 
that  it  has  elicited  the  admiration  of  many  of  the 
greatest  scholars  ;  and  it  has  passed  into  upwards  of 
two  hundred  translations.  A  multitude  of  English 
versions  have  been  made ;  the  most  approved  being 
those  by  Archbishop  Trench,  Dean  Alford,  Dr.  W.  R. 
Williams,  of  New  York,  Professor  SchafF,  General  Dix, 
and  Dr.  Coles,  of  Newark,  who  has  given  us  thir- 
teen various  renderings  from  his  own  pen.  This 
acknowledged  masterpiece  of  Latin  poetry  has  been 
pronounced  the  most  sublime  of  all  uninspired  hymns. 
Professor  SchafF  remarks  that  the  secret  of  "  the  irresist- 
ible power  of  the  '  Dies  Iree '  lies  in  the  awful  grandeur 
of  the  theme,  the  intense  earnestness  and  pathos  of  the 
poet,  the  simple  majesty  and  solemn  music  of  the  lan- 
guage, the  stately  metre,  the  triple  rhyme,  and  the 
vowel  assonances  chosen  in  striking  adaptation  to  the 
sense,  —  all  combining  to  produce  an  overwhelming 
eifect,  as  if  we  heard  the  final  crash  of  the  universe, 
the  commotion  of  the  opening  graves,  the  trumpet  of 
the  archangel,  summoning  the  quick  and  the  dead  ; 
and  saw  the  King  of  'tremendous  majest^s'  seated  on 
the  throne  of  justice  and  mercy,  and  ready  to  dispense 
everlasting  life,  or  everlasting  woe  !  Goethe  describes 
its  effect  upon  the  guilty  conscience,  in  the  cathedral 
scene  of '  Faust.' "  It  is  no  easy  thing  to  determine  the 
choice  from  the  many  fine  versions  recently  executed 
by  scholars ;  but,  as  all  are  good,  we  shall  feel  the 
less  scrupulous  in  our  selection,  and  subjoin  that 
which  has  already  received  distinguished  notice.     We 


yO  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

refer  to  that  of  General  Dix, — "written,"  as  he  in- 
forms us,  "amid  the  tumult,  and  as  a  relief  from  the 
asperities  of  war."  We  only  present  the  first  stanza 
in  the  original :  — 

Dies  Iras,  dies  ilia  ! 
Solvet  saeclum  in  favilla, 
Teste  David  cum  Sibylli. 


Day  of  vengeance,  without  morrow ! 
Earth  shall  end  in  flame  and  sorrow, 
As  from  saint  and  seer  we  borrow. 

Ah  !  what  terror  is  impending, 
When  the  Judge  is  seen  descending, 
And  each  secret  veil  is  rending  ! 

To  the  throne,  the  trumpet  sounding. 
Through  the  sepulchres  resounding, 
Summons  all,  with  voice  astounding. 

Death  and  Nature,  mazed,  are  quaking. 
When,  the  grave's  long  slumber  breaking, 
Man  to  judgment  is  awaking. 

On  the  written  Volume's  pages, 
Life  is  shown  in  all  its  stages  — 
Judgment-record  of  past  ages  ! 

Sits  the  Judge,  the  raised  arraigning, 
Darkest  mysteries  explaining, 
Nothing  unavenged  remaining. 

What  shall  I  then  say,  unfriended. 

By  no  advocate  attended, 

When  the  just  are  scarce  defended. 

King  of  Majesty  tremendous, 
By  Thy  saving  grace  defend  us  ; 
Fount  of  pity,  safety  send  us  ! 

Holy  Jesus  !  meek,  forbearing, 

For  my  sins  the  death-crown  wearing, 

Save  me,  in  that  day,  despairing. 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  7 1 

Worn  and  weary,  Thou  hast  sought  me  ; 
By  Thy  cross  and  passion  bought  me  ;  — 
Spare  the  hope  Thy  labors  brought  me. 

Righteous  Judge  of  retribution, 
Give,  oh,  give  me  absolution 
Ere  the  day  of  dissolution. 

As  a  guilty  culprit  groaning, 
Flushed  my  face,  my  errors  owning, 
Hear,  O  God,  my  spirit's  moaning ! 

Thou  to  Mary  gav'st  remission, 
Heard'st  the  dying  thief's  petition, 
Bad'st  me  hope  in  my  contrition. 

In  my  prayers  no  grace  discerning, 
Yet  on  me  Thy  favor  turning. 
Save  my  soul  from  endless  burning ! 

Give  me,  when  Thy  sheep  confiding 
Thou  art  from  the  goats  dividing. 
On  Thy  right  a  place  abiding ! 

When  the  wicked  are  confounded, 
And  by  bitter  flames  surrounded. 
Be  my  joyful  pardon  sounded ! 

Prostrate  all  my  guilt  discerning. 
Heart  as  though  to  ashes  turning ; 
Save,  oh,  save  me  from  the  burning ! 

Day  of  weeping,  when  from  ashes 
Man  shall  rise  'mid  lightning  flashes. 
Guilty,  trembling  with  contrition, 
Save  him,  Father,  from  perdition  ! 

Need  we  wonder  that  even  the  sturdy  Dr.  Johnson 
confessed,  with  Sir  Walter  Scott,  that  he  could  not 
recite  it  without  tears ;  or  that  Mozart,  when  he  made 
it  the  basis  of  his  celebrated  "Requiem,"  became  so 
intensely  excited  by  the  theme  as  to  hasten  his  death. 
In  the  closing  days  of  his  earthly  career,  even  when 


72  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

his  great  intellect  became  partially  obscured,  Sir 
Walter  was  heard  to  murmur  to  himself  his  own 
rendering  of  this  memorable  canticle. 

As  the  "Dies  Irce"  has  been  pronounced  the  great- 
est, so  the  "Stabat  Mater  Dolorosa,"  composed  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  by  Jacobus  de  Benedictis,  is  the 
most  pathetic  of  hymns.  Of  the  latter,  we  present 
the  opening  stanzas  of  Lord  L3^ndsay's  excellent  ver- 
sion :  — 

By  the  cross,  sad  vigil  keeping, 

Stood  the  mournful  mother  weeping, 
While  on  it  the  Saviour  hung  ; 

In  that  hour  of  deep  distress, 

Pierced,  the  sword  of  bitterness 

Through  her  heart  with  sorrow  wrung. 

Oh,  how  sad,  how  woe-begone 
Was  that  ever-blessed  one, 

Mother  of  the  Son  of  God  ! 
Oh,  what  bitter  tears  she  shed 
Whilst  before  her  Jesus  bled 

'Neath  the  Father's  penal  rod  ! 

There  is  a  beautiful  sequel  to  the  "Dies  Iras,"  sup- 
posed to  have  been  written  about  the  same  time,  called 
"Dies  ilia,  dies  vitas."  We  subjoin  a  portion  of  Mrs. 
Charles's  translation  :  — 

Lo,  the  Day,  —  the  Day  of  Life  ! 

Day  of  unimagined  light. 
Day  when  Deatli  itself  shall  die, 

And  there  shall  be  no  more  night 

See  the  King  desired  for  ages. 

By  the  just  expected  long  ; 
Long  implored,  at  length  He  hasteth, 

Cometh  with  salvation  strong. 
Oh,  how  past  all  utterance  happy, 

Sweet,  and  joyful  it  will  be, 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  73 

When  they  who,  unseen,  have  loved  Him, 
Jesus,  face  to  face,  shall  see ! 

There  shall  be  no  sighs  or  weeping, 

Not  a  shade  of  doubt  or  fear  ; 
No  old  age,  no  want  or  sorrow, 

Nothing  sick  or  lacking  there. 
There  the  peace  will  be  unbroken, 

Deep  and  solemn  joy  be  shed  ; 
Youth  in  fadeless  flower  and  freshness, 

And  salvation  perfected. 
What  will  be  the  bliss  and  rapture, 

None  can  dream  and  none  can  tell,  — 
There  to  reign  among  the  angels, 

In  that  heavenly  home  to  dwell ! 
To  those  realms,  just  Judge,  oh,  call  me  ! 

Deign  to  open  that  blest  gate,  — 
Thou,  whom,  seeking,  looking,  longing, 

I,  with  eager  hope,  await ! 

We  are  again  indebted  to  the  able  pen  of  Dr,  J.  M. 
Neale  for  the  translation  of  the  following,  one  of  the 
latest  of  the  notable  Latin  hymns  :  — 

Sing  victory,  O  ye  seas  and  lands  ! 
Ye  floods  and  rivers,  clap  your  hands  ! 
Break  forth  in  joy,  angelic  bands  ! 
Crown  ye  the  King  that  'midst  you  stands, 
To  whom  the  heavenly  gate  expands  ! 

Bow  before  His  Name  Eternal, 

Things  celestial,  things  terrestrial, 

And  infernal ! 
Sing  victory,  angel-guards  that  wait ! 
Lift  up,  lift  up  the  eternal  gate. 
And  let  the  King  come  in  with  state  ! 
And,  as  ye  meet  Him  on  the  way, 
The  mighty  triumph  greet,  and  say, 
Hail,  Jesu  !  glorious  Prince,  to-day! 
Who  is  the  King  of  Glory  blest, 
Effiilgent  in  His  purple  vest  ?     ' 
With  garments  dyed  in  Bozrah,  He 


74       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Ascends  in  pomp  and  jubilee. 

It  is  the  King,  renowned  in  fight, 

Whose  hands  have  shattered  Satan's  might! 

Bow  before  His  Name  Eternal ! 

Things  celestial,  things  terrestrial, 

And  infernal ! 

The  following  beautiful  lines  are  part  of  a  transla- 
tion by  Professor  Longfellow,  of  a  Latin  hymn,  written 
by  the  celebrated  Francisco  Xavier,  the  friend  and 
companion  of  Loyola,  who,  for  his  zeal  in  the  Eastern 
missions,  was  styled  the  "Apostle  of  the  Indies  : " — 

O  God  !  my  spirit  loves  but  Thee  : 

Not  that  in  Heaven  its  home  may  be,  — 

Not  that  the  souls  who  love  not  Thee 

Shall  groan  in  fire  eternally  ; 

But  Thou,  on  the  accursed  tree, 

In  mercy  hast  remembered  me. 

For  me  the  cruel  nails,  the  spear, 

The  ignominious  scoff,  didst  bear ; 

Countless,  unutterable  woes, — 

The  bloody  sweat,  death's  pangs  and  throes,  — 

These  Thou  didst  bear,  all  these  for  me, 

A  sinner,  and  estranged  from  Thee. 

And  wherefore  no  affection  show, 

Jesus,  to  Thee,  that  lov'st  me  so  ? 

Not  that  in  heaven  my  home  may  be. 

Not  lest  I  die  eternally. 

Not  from  the  hopes  of  joys  above  me  ; 

Not  even  as  Thou  Thyself  didst  love  me : 

So  love  I,  and  ever  will  love  Thee  ; 

Surely  because  my  King  art  Thou, 

My  God  for  evermore  as  now. 

There  is  another  celebrated  ode,  of  very  ancient 
origin,  "a  voice  of  all  ages,"  entitled  "Caslestis  urbs 
Jerusalem."  It  has  been  supposed  that  the  earliest 
English  version  of  it  was  made  by  Dickson,  of  Edin- 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  75 

burgh,  in  the  seventeenth  century ;  but  recently  Dr. 
Bonar  has  discovered  another  version  in  a  manuscript 
volume  in  the  British  Museum,  which  he  regards  as 
of  an  earlier  date.  This  fine  old  hymn,  not  only 
possesses  great  poetic  merit,  but  also  a  talismanic 
charm  for  many  a  Christian  pilgrim.  It  is  richly 
freighted  with  touching  and  beautiful  memories  and 
associations.  Its  plaintive  and  melodious  words  have 
been  lisped  by  multitudes,  who,  amid  the  sorrows  of 
earth,  longed  for  the  beatitudes  of  the  "better  coun- 
try ;  "  by  once  breathing  lips  that  have  long  since 
ceased  to  make  melody  on  earth,  but  whose  spirits  are 
now  with  the  choruses  of  the  "  upper  sanctuary."  It 
was  the  favorite  refrain  of  the  Cameronian  martyrs 
and  Covenanters,  who  sang  it  in  the  glens  and  on  the 
mountains  of  Scotland  ;  and  it  has  been  made  the  vehi- 
cle of  devout  aspiration,  alike  by  prince  and  peasant, 
in  the  cathedral  and  the  cottage. 

This  hymn  was  originally  entitled  "  The  New  Jeru- 
salem ;  or,  the  Soul's  Breathing  after  the  Heavenly 
Country."  From  Mr.  Prime's  interesting  work  on 
this  hymn,  we  extract  some  portion  of  it,  the  entire 
poem  extending  to  thirty-one  stanzas  :  — 

O  mother  dear,  Jerusalem  !  when  shall  I  come  to  thee  ? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end,  thy  joys  when  shall  I  see  ? 
O  happy  harbor  of  God's  saints  !     O  sweet  and  pleasant  soil ! 
In  thee  no  sorrows  can  be  found,  no  grief,  no  care,  no  toil. 


Jerusalem  the  City  is  of  God  our  King  alone  ; 
The  Lamb  of  God,  the  light  thereof,  sits  there  upon  His  throne. 
Thy  turrets  and  thy  pinnacles  with  carbuncles  do  shine, 
With  jasper,  pearl,  and  chrysolite,  surpassing  pure  and  fine. 


*j6  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Thy  walls  are  made  of  precious  stones,  thy  bulwarks  diamonds 

square ; 
Thy  gates  are  made  of  Orient  pearl,  —  O  God,  if  I  were  there  ! 

The  prison-cells  of  that  storied  old  "Tower,"  on  the 
banks  of  the  Thames,  are  covered  with  the  marks  and 
memorials  of  many  a  hapless  victim  of  tyranny  and 
persecution.  It  was  there,  probably,  towards  the  close 
of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  that  the  long  prison-song 
was  written,  which  now  is  treasured  as  a  sacred  relic 
in  the  British  Museum.  The  winged  words  of  this  glo- 
rious old  hymn  have,  however,  long  since  found  their 
way  into  thousands  of  Christian  hearts,  both  in  Europe 
and  America ;  and  to  many  it  has  become  an  angelic 
ministrant  of  grace.  A  young  Scotchman,  who  was 
on  his  death-bed  at  New  Orleans,  s'a3^s  the  American 
biographer  of  Whitefield,  was  visited  by  a  Presbyterian 
minister,  but  continued  for  a  time  to  shut  himself  up 
against  all  the  good  man's  efforts  to  reach  his  heart. 
Somewhat  discouraged,  at  last  the  visitor  turned  away, 
and,  scarcely  knowing  wh}^  unless  it  were  for  his  own 
comfort,  began  to  sing  "Jerusalem,  my  happy  home." 
That  was  enough ;  a  tender  chord  was  touched ;  the 
young  patient's  heart  was  melted ;  and  with  tears  he 
said,  "  My  dear  mother  used  to  sing  that  hymn ! " 
He  no  longer  refused  the  good  offices  of  his  clerical 
friend,  but  listened  to  his  spiritual  counsel ;  and  his 
consolation  ensued. 

In  closing  our  second  evening's  studies,  we  may 
remark  that  we  have  had  to  omit  many  notable  and 
beautiful  pieces,  on  account  of  the  erroneous  doctrines 
they  teach ;  and  even  of  those  we  have  indicated  to 
the  reader,  our  extracts  have  been  necessarily  brief, 
on  this  account.     The  worship  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 


MEDIEVAL    LATIN.  77 

the  dogma  of  transubstantiation,  intercession  of  saints, 
and  the  superstitious  addresses  to  the  material  cross, 
which  characterize  so  generally  the  service  of  song 
in  the  Mediasval  Church,  have  deprived  us  of  the 
privilege  of  more  largely  quoting  from  those  other- 
wise masterly  productions  of  the  monastic  ages.  We 
do  not,  of  course,  wish  to  imply  that  the  middle-age 
theology  was  wholly  corrupt,  and  ought  to  be  placed 
under  ban  :  there  was  a  small  streamlet  that  still  was 
preserved  in  its  pristine  purity.  For  the  sake  of  this, 
therefore,  and  the  natural  desire  we  all  feel  to  know 
somethincj  of  what  the  Church  was  doinjj  durino-  her 
thousand  years'  eclipse,  we  have  made  our  citations 
as  freely  as  we  might.  "In  Romanism,  we  have  the 
residuum  of  the  Middle- age  Church  and  theology, — 
the  lees,  after  all,  or  well-nigh  all :  the  wine  was 
drained  away.  But,  in  the  Mediseval  Church,  we 
have  the  wine  and  the  lees  together,  the  truth  and 
the  error;  the  false  observance,  and  yet,  at  the  same 
time,  the  divine  truth,  which  should  one  day  be  fatal 
to  it,  side  by  side."*  The  ever-living  Church  of 
Christ,  whether  in  the  Catacombs  or  among  the 
Swiss  Alps,  is  one  with  ours  :  — 

"  Their  song  to  us  descendeth  : 
The  Spirit,  who  in  them  did  sing,  to  us  His  music  lendeth. 

His  song,  in  them,  in  us,  is  one ; 

We  raise  it  high,  we  send  it  on,  — 
The  song  that  never  endeth  ! " 

Could  w^  bridge  over  the  distance  of  time,  and 
penetrate  through  the  disguise  of  cowl  and  cloister, 
we  should,  doubtless,  discover  that,  despite  the  out- 
ward uniformity  of  convent-life,  there  existed  the  same 

•  Trench's  Sacred  Latin  Poetry. 


78  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

internal  Christian  experience,  —  of  doubt  and  fear, 
sorrow  and  exultation,  —  that  mark  the  inner  Chris- 
tian life  of  our  own  day.  The  gems  of  the  hymn 
literature  of  those  remote  times  we  gather  from  many 
a  hidden  mine ;  and  they  flash  frequently  across  a 
chaos  of  ignorance  and  darkness.  It  has  been  well 
said,  "We  need  only  study  the  sacred  poetry  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  to  understand  why  the  Reformation 
was  needed."  The  idolatry  of  the  Virgin  was  and 
still  continues  to  be  the  great  heresy  of  Latin  Chris- 
tianity :  it  was  born  of  darkness,  and  gathered  strength 
from  the  superstitious  weakness  of  its  adherents.  As 
the  Bible  afforded  no  authority  for  the  dogma,  "tradi- 
tion "  was  invoked ;  and  "  tradition  wove  a  gorgeous 
robe  for  her,"  while  music  and  painting  aided  to  invest 
the  delusion  with  their  spell. 


THIRD   EVENING. 


GERMAN-REFORMATION   ERA. 


rm$ 


THIRD     EVENING. 


GERMAN-REFORMATION   ERA. 

''  I  'HUS  far  our  rapid  survey  of  the  sacred  poetry 
-*-  of  the  Latin  Church  has  verified  the  remark  of 
a  great  thinker,*  that  "it  is  but  feebly,  and  as  afar 
off,  that  the  ancient  liturgies  (except  so  far  as  they 
merely  copied  their  originals)  came  up  to  the  majesty 
and  the  wide  compass  of  the  Hebrew  worship,  such 
as  it  is  indicated  in  Psalm  clxviii.  Neither  Ambrose, 
nor  Gregory,  nor  the  Greeks  have  reached,  or  ap- 
proached this  level.  As  to  the  powers  of  sacred 
poetry,  those  powers  were  expanded  to  the  full,  and 
were  quite  expended  too,  by  the  Hebrew  bards.  What 
are  modern  hymns  but  so  many  laborious  attempts  to 
put  in  a  new  form  that  which,  as  it  was  done  in  the 
very  best  manner  so  many  ages  ago,  can  never  be 
well  done  again,  otherwise  than  in  a  way  of  verbal 
repetition." 

As  in  the  hardest  winter  the  roots  are  still  alive  in 
the  frozen  ground,  so  in  the  dim  seclusion  of  monastic 
life,  during  some  ten  centuries,  there  still  lived  and 
germinated  the  hidden  seeds  of  spiritual  life ;  and 
many  a  soul-stirring  out-gush  of  song,  which  at  first 

*  Isaac  Taylor. 

6 


82  EA'ENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

resounded  amid  the  solemn  stillness  of  cloistered  cell, 
or  echoed  along  the  lofty  arches  of  many  a  stately  ca- 
thedral, now  reverberated  in  the  homesteads  and  on  the 
hill-sides  of  Germany.  There  is,  however,  a  charac- 
teristic freshness  and  purity,  as  well  as  spiritual  fervor, 
in  the  devotional  lyrics  which  ushered  in,  and  accom- 
panied the  Protestant  Reformation  of  Germany.  A 
greater  variety  in  the  subjects  of  these  hymns  is  no 
less  noticeable,  as  also  the  peculiar  circumstances 
which  called  them  forth.  No  longer  do  these  mel- 
odies come  to  us  from  the  cloister  of  monkish  ascet- 
icism, devoted  mainly  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
cross  and  passion  of  our  Lord,  not  to  refer  to  the 
idolatrous  character  of  the  majority  of  them,  but  they 
pertain  to  the  daily  needs  and  experiences  of  active 
Christian  life.  They  are  heart-bursts  from  the  cham- 
ber of  domestic  sorrow,  glad  orisons  of  praise  from 
the  harvest-field,  earnest  appeals  for  Divine  succor 
amidst  the  terrors  of  war,  —  the  voices  of  the  inner  life 
of  the  individual  Christian  amid  the  various  activities 
of  those  stirring  times  of  transition  and  trial. 

Well  has  it  been  said  by  D'Aubignd,  that  Poetry 
caught  the  living  flame  kindled  up  by  the  Reformation. 
The  souls  of  Luther,  and  many  of  his  coadjutors,  ele- 
vated by  faith  to  the  loftiest  flights  of  thought,  excited 
to  enthusiasm  by  the  conflicts  and  perils  which  con- 
stantly threatened  the  infant  church,  —  in  a  word,  in- 
spired by  the  poetic  genius  of  the  Old  Testament,  and 
by  their  faith  in  the  New,  —  soon  poured  out  their 
feelings  in  religious  songs,  in  which  poetry  and  music 
mingled  all  the  heavenly  elements  that  belonged  to 
either.  Thus  the  sixteenth  century  witnessed  the  re- 
vival of  the  psalmody  which  had  consoled  the  martyrs 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  83 

of  the  first  Christian  age.  The  same  year  that  Luther 
consecrated  his  powers  of  melody  and  verse  to  me- 
moriaHze  the  martyrs  of  Brussels,  Hans  Sachs  sang 
"The  Nightingale  of  Wittenberg."  The  doctrine, 
which  for  four  centuries  had  prevailed  in  the  Church, 
was  as  the  light  of  the  moon,  gleaming  upon  men 
wandering  in  a  wilderness.  Now  the  nightingale 
announced  the  sun,  and  rose  above  the  morning 
clouds,  hymning  the  light  of  day.  But  this  mag- 
nificent harmony,  produced  by  the  gospel  in  the  day 
of  its  revival,  was  soon  to  be  disturbed.  The  songs 
of  the  Wittenberg  nightingale  were  interrupted  by 
the  whistling  of  the  tempest  and  the  roaring  of  lions. 
A  mist  gathers  in  a  moment  over  all  Germany ;  and, 
after  a  splendid  day,  there  comes  a  night  of  the  deep- 
est darkness.  The  struggle  between  the  leaders  of 
the  Protestant  Reformation,  and  the  Catholicism  of  the 
Middle  Ages  in  its  decay,  forms  the  principal  object 
of  interest  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  one  party 
was  in  its  decrepitude  and  decadence  ;  the  other,  full 
of  the  energy  of  young  life. 

The  invention  of  the  printing-press  was  gradually 
affecting  a  mighty  revolution  over  the  world.  The 
Greek  and  Latin  classics,  which  were  till  then  sealed 
books,  save  to  the  monk,  were  now  free  to  general 
perusal.  The  same,  to  a  certain  extent,  was  being 
done  for  the  Sacred  Scriptures.  It  was  an  epoch  of 
wondrous  awakening  of  the  nations ;  it  was  when 
Tasso  and  Ariosto  were  pouring  forth  their  lays  to 
the  ears  of  kings  and  princes,  celebrating  the  deliver- 
ance of  the  holy  Sepulchre,  or  the  feats  of  the  paladins 
of  Charlemagne.  While  Portugal  was  delighted  with 
the  strains  of  a  Camoens,  and  while  England  gloried 


84  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

in  her  Shakspeare,  and  France  boasted  her  Ronsard 
and  her  Marot,  Germany  had,  as  yet,  no  poets  more 
eminent  than  Hans  Sachs,  who,  next  to  Lope  de 
V^ega,  has  the  merit  of  being  the  most  prolific  poet 
the  world  has  ever  known.  Germany  was  mute  until 
the  Reformation ;  then  it  broke  forth  into  song,  for  it 
had  something  to  sing  about,  —  its  rescue  from  spirit- 
ual despotism,  ignorance,  and  superstition. 

It  was  fitting  that  the  dawn  of  the  Reformation 
should  be  ushered  in  with  the  voice  of  hallowed 
song ;  and  after  the  dark  night  which  had  brooded 
so  long  over  the  world  had  receded,  a  rich  choral 
gush  of  rejoicing  melody  did  burst  forth,  like  the 
hght,  over  the  liberated  land.  Since  the  apostolic 
times,  the  most  formidable  foe  the  Christian  Church 
has  had  to  oppose,  was  that  system  which  claimed  to 
be  the  Church  itself.  The  Council  of  Trent — as  far 
as  worldly  influence  was  concerned,  one  of  the  most 
august  and  imposing  assemblages  the  world  had  ever 
witnessed  —  provoked,  by  its  action,  a  cry  of  sur- 
prise, indignation,  and  grief;  but  that  cry  w^as  lost 
in  air. 

"Rome  inwardly  laughed  at  Christendom  around 
her,  while  she  showed  her  spell  to  be  of  such  a  nature, 
that  to  break  it,  needed  another  might  than  that  of  emper- 
ors, kings,  bishops,  and  doctors,  with  all  the  science  and 
all  the  power  of  the  age  and  the  Church.  .  .  .  The  phi- 
losophers of  Alexandria  had  spoken  of  a  fire  wherein 
men  ought  to  be  purified  ;  and  now  Rome  set  forth  this 
as  a  doctrine  of  the  Church  ;  adding,  that  indulgences 
could  deliver  souls  from  this  intermediate  state,  in 
which  otherwise  their  sins  would  detain  them.  Noth- 
ing  was    omitted    that    could   inspire  fear.      Man    is 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  85 

prompted  by  his  own  nature  to  dread  an  unknown 
future ;  and  this  dread  was  worked  upon  and  aug- 
mented. Who,  then,  could  withhold  the  price  of  a 
ransom?  So  the  revolting  trade  went  on,  —  pope  after 
pope  finding  new  methods  of  increasing  it,  —  till,  in 
the  year  1300,  Boniface  VIII.  published  a  bull,  an- 
nouncing, that,  every  hundred  years,  all  who  pre- 
sented themselves  at  Rome  should  receive  a  plenary 
indulgence.  From  Italy,  Sicily,  Sardinia,  Corsica, 
France,  Germany,  Hungary,  —  from  everywhere, 
the  tide  set  in.  In  one  month,  they  counted  in  Rome 
two  hundred  thousand  pilgrims.  All  these  brought 
rich  offerings,  and  the  Roman  treasury  was  rapidlv 
filled.  The  next  thing  was  to  fix  the  return  of  the 
jubilee  at  fifty,  then  at  thirty,  and  lastly  at  twenty- 
live  years.  Then,  for  the  greater  convenience  of  pur- 
chasers, and  the  greater  profit  of  the  vendors,  both 
the  jubilee  and  its  indulgences  were  given  to  every 
place  in  Christendom.  Thus  the  clergy  had  dis- 
graced both  religion  and  themselves.  Well  might 
Luther  exclaim,  'The  ecclesiastical  state  is  opposed 
to  God  and  his  glory.  .  .  .  Every  man  feels  disgust 
when  he  sees  or  hears  of  an  ecclesiastic'  The  evil 
had  spread  through  all  ranks  :  corruption  of  manners 
kept  pace  with  corruption  of  faith,  and  a  mystery  of 
iniquity  lay  like  an  incubus  on  the  enslaved  Church 
of  Christ.  The  vital  doctrines  of  the  Scriptures  had 
nearly  disappeared.  The  strength  of  the  Church  had 
been  wasted  ;  and  its  body  lay  stretched  upon  that  part 
of  the  earth  which  the  Roman  empire  had  occupied, 
enfeebled,  exhausted,  and  all  but  lifeless."* 

As  a  set-off  for  the  many  knavish  tricks  and  frauds 

*  D'Aubiciie's  Reformation. 


86  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

by  which  money  was  extracted,  through  the  terror 
and  creduHty  of  the  people,  by  Tetzel,  —  a  story  is  told 
of  a  Saxon  gentleman  who  outwitted  the  wily  impos- 
tor. Having  bargained,  for  thirty  crowns,  for  permis- 
sion to  commit  an  act  of  violence,  he  took  out  his 
money's  worth  upon  that  functionary  himself,  for  whom 
he  lay  in  w^ait,  and,  having  beaten  him  grievously, 
carried  off  the  rich  chest  of  indulgence  money,  which 
he  had  helped  to  fill.  On  his  trial  for  the  audacious 
act,  the  "indulgence,"  which  he  exhibited,  secured  his 
acquittal. 

Yet,  all  along  this  epoch  of  spiritual  inertia  and 
death,  a  chain  of  living  witnesses  for  the  truth  exist- 
ed, known .  as  the  Waldenses,  from  the  heights  of 
the  Piedmont  Alps  :  these  ever  protested  against  the 
superstitions  and  errors  of  Rome. 

The  voice  of  Protestantism  is  again  lifted  up,  m 
England  by  Wickliffe,  and  in  Bohemia  by  John 
Huss,  a  century  before  Luther  in  Saxony.  lluss, 
"the  John  the  Baptist  of  the  Reformation,"  spread 
a  vast  light  through  the  darkness,  which  was  not 
soon  to  be  extinguished.  A  pious  bishop  of  Basle, 
Christopher  of  Utenheim,  caused  his  name  to  be 
written  on  a  picture  painted  on  glass,  which  is  still  at 
Basle,*  and  encircled  it  with  this  device,  which  he 
desired  to  have  always  before  his  eyes:  "M}'  hope 
is  the  cross  of  Christ:  I  seek  grace,  and  not  works." 
A  poor  Carthusian  brother,  Martin,  writes  a  touching 
confession,  in  which  he  says,  "O  God,  most  chari- 
table !  I  know  that  I  cannot  be  saved,  and  satisfy  Thy 
justice,  otherwise  than  through  the  merit,  the  very 
innocent  passion,  and  the  death  of  Thy  well-beloved 

•  D'Aubign^. 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  87 

Son.  Holy  Jesus  !  all  my  salvation  is  in  Thy  hands. 
Thou  canst  not  turn  from  me  the  hands  of  Thy  love, 
for  they  have  created,  formed,  and  redeemed  me  !  " 
The  piety  of  the  good  monk  would  never  have  been 
known  to  us,  had  not  an  old  dwelling,  which  had 
formed  part  of  the  convent  in  Basle,  been  taken  down, 
in  the  year  1776,  when  this  confession  of  faith  was 
discovered  in  a  wooden  box,  which  his  own  hands 
must  have  placed  in  the  wall  of  his  cell.  Let  us 
cherish  the  hope,  that  many  another  cloistered  relic 
of  this  priceless  order,  although  as  yet  undiscovered, 
may  have  existed,  as  a  memorial  that  the  spirit  of 
truth  had  not  wholly  forsaken  the  haunts  of  men  dur- 
ing these  dark  ages. 

Scarcely  had  the  Councils  of  Constance  and  Basle, 
which  condemned  Huss  and  his  followers,  broken  up, 
when  some  fearless  Christian  men  arose,  like  the  Old- 
Testament  prophets,  and,  with  voices  of  thunder, 
uttered  their  denunciations  against  the  prevailing  vices 
of  the  priesthood.  These  heroic  confessors  and  mar- 
t3TS  went,  too,  like  Huss,  to  their  reward,  in  a  mantle 
of  flame  !  Savonarola  preaches  in  Florence,  in  1497  : 
his  thrilling  voice  and  impassioned  gesture  captivate 
the  hearts  of  his  hearers.  "The  Church  must  be 
renewed  ! "  he  exclaims.  The  Dominican  paid  the 
usual  penalty  of  his  temerity.  Then  came  John  of 
Wessalia,  a  scholar  of  good  repute  and  courage,  pro- 
claiming "the  Holy  Scriptures  to  be  the  only  source 
of  faith ; "  and  the  brave  old  confessor,  with  tottering 
steps,  is  led  to  the  dungeons  of  the  Inquisition  to  die. 

But  John  Hilten,  a  Franciscan  monk  at  Eisenach, 
in  Thuringia,  and  a  great  student  of  prophecy,  went 
farther.     When  thrown  into  prison  on  account  of  his 


oS  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

writings,  his  advanced  age  and  the  fihhiness  of  his 
dungeon  bringing  on  a  dangerous  illness,  he  sent  for 
the  friar  superintendent,  who  at  once  began  to  rebuke 
him  harshly  for  his  doctrine,  and  his  attacks  on  the 
abuses  of  monastic  life.  Hilten,  forgetting  his  illness, 
and  fetching  a  deep  sigh,  said,  "I  calmly  submit  to 
your  injustice,  for  the  love  of  Christ :  but  another  will 
come,  in  the  year  of  the  Lord  1516;  he  will  destroy 
you,  and  you  will  not  be  able  to  stand  against  him." 
Luther  was  born  not  long  after,  a  short  distance  from 
Hilten's  dungeon  ;  commenced  his  studies  in  the  same 
town  in  which  the  monk  was  prisoner ;  and  publicly 
engaged  in  the  Reformation,  only  a  year  later  than 
this  singular  prophecy  had  indicated. 

When  Luther  was  sent  to  the  Franciscan  school  at 
Magdeburg,  he  used  to  sing  in  the  streets  for  his 
bread,  as  his  father  was  unable  to  support  him.  A 
year  after,  he  removed  to  a  better  school  at  Eisenach, 
where  he  had  relatives  ;  but  they,  too,  neglected  him. 
And  here  it  was  that  Ursula,  the  wife  of  Conrad 
Cotta,  took  compassion  on  the  singing  boy,  receiving 
him  into  her  house,  where,  for  some  3^ears,  he  en- 
joyed one  of  the  most  pleasant  and  profitable  periods 
of  his  life.  In  that  hospitable  home,  young  Martin 
greatly  extended  his  knowledge,  and  laid  the  founda- 
tion for  his  love  of  music  and  song.  At  the  age  of 
eighteen,  he  entered  the  University  of  Erfurt,  where 
he  made  great  attainments ;  and  it  was  there  that  he, 
for  the  first  time,  found  the  Bible,  which  he  read  with 
deep  thought,  and  great  wonder  and  delight.  This 
incident  was  a  controlling  one  in  the  life  of  I-,uther ; 
he  soon  after  entered  the  Augustine  monastery,  at 
Erfurt,    where,    after    passing    through    three    years 


GERMAN-REFORIMATION    ERA.  89 

of  spiritual  conflicts,  he  at  length  emerged  into  evan- 
gelical rest  and  peace.  The  Elector  of  Saxony,  in 
1508,  invited  him  to  the  University  of  Wittenberg, 
where  he  soon  was  appointed  to  the  Chair  of  Divinity, 
and  was  called  to  expound  the  Scriptures  daily.  Thus 
gradually  and  unconsciously  was  he  being  prepared 
for  the  great  work  of  the  Reformation. 

Luther  was  never  ashamed  to  speak  of  the  deep 
poverty  of  his  youth ;  when  at  the  height  of  his  great- 
ness, he  would  recall  the  fact.  Yes  :  the  same  voice 
whose  tones  had  shaken  the  empire  of  the  world,  had 
once  humbly  begged  a  morsel  of  bread.  Then,  again, 
note  that  obscure  antique  tome,  which,  perhaps,  had 
remained  unnoticed  for  centuries,  in  the  library  of 
Erfurt;  but  it  was  destined  to  become,  by  the  Divine 
Providence,  the  "Book  of  Life,"  not  only  to  a  whole 
nation,  but  to  the  world  at  large ;  for  the  seed  of  the 
Reformation  was  contained  within  it.  It  was  this 
Latin  version  of  the  Scriptures  that  Luther  read  and 
re-read  with  so  much  delight ;  it  was  the  spiritual 
manna,  upon  which  his  hungry  soul  feasted  so  often, 
and  which  ultimately  made  him  the  stalwart  champion 
of  the  faith. 

Light  from  heaven  burst  upon  the  darkened  mind 
of  Luther,  when  the  vicar-general  Staupitz  announced 
to  him  for  the  first  time  the  great  foundation  truth, 
that  not  in  works  and  penance,  but  in  "love  toward 
God,  and  faith  toward  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,"  true 
repentance  consists.  "  Seek  not  conversion  in  emaci- 
ation and  suffering,  but  love.  Him  who  first  loved 
thee."  Luther  listened  in  rapt  attention :  his  heart 
was  surprised  with  an  unknown  joy,  his  mind  with 
a  strange  and  unknown  light.     Thus  illumined  him- 


pO  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

self,  he  soon  began  to  scatter  abroad  those  rays  of 
light  upon  others ;  while  the  Bible,  which  he  found 
chained  up  in  a  monastery,  in  a  dead  language,  he 
ultimately  gave  to  the  common  people  in  their  own 
vernacular.  Look  again  at  Luther  boldly  confront- 
ing that  august  assemblage  at  the  Diet  of  Worms,  — 
how,  noblest  of  them  all,  does  he  stand  forth,  pano- 
plied in  the  "whole  armor  of  God." 

All  e3'es  are  centred  upon  the  marvellous  and 
intrepid  monk,  albeit  slight  traces  of  emotion  are 
obsei-ved  in  his  deportment,  as  he  finds  himself  unsup- 
ported in  the  midst  of  so  much  pomp  and  pageantry 
of  state ;  but  soon  he  recovers  his  equanimity,  all  agi- 
tation subsides,  and  — 

"  There  he  stands  in  superhuman  calm, 
Concentred  and  sublime  !  Around  him  pomp 
And  blaze  imperial,  haughty  eyes,  and  words 
Whose  tones  breathe  tyranny,  in  vain  attempt 
The  heaven-born  quiet  of  his  soul  to  move  ; 
Crowned  with  the  grace  of  everlasting  Truth, 
A  more  than  monarch  among  kings  he  stood !  " 

While  his  friends  thought  their  cause  lost,  and  ram- 
pant enemies  were  thirsting  for  his  blood,  Luther  was 
energetically  and  prayerfully  preparing  to  give  the 
German  nation  that  Word  of  God  which  the  Romish 
priesthood  had  for  centuries  hidden  from  their  gaze. 
"God,  who  had  conducted  John  to  Patmos,  there  to 
write  liis  Revelation,  had  confined  Luther  in  the 
Wartburg,  there  to  translate  His  Word."*  Luther 
well  knew  the  value  of  the  Bible  :  it  was  the  well- 
spring  of  his  spiritual  life  and  consolation  ;  and  there- 
fore he  might  well   exclaim,  "Would   that  this  book 

•  D'Aubigii6. 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA. 


91 


were  in  every  language,  in  every  land,  before  the 
eyes  and  in  the  hearts  of  all  men."  This  benevolent 
wish  came  from  the  lip  of  one  excommunicated  and 
outlawed  by  the  pretended  head  of  the  Church. 
Among  the  literary  curiosities  of  the  Astor  Library, 
is  a  copy  of  the  Bull  of  Pope  Leo,  against  Martin 
Luther.  The  title  is  as  follows  :  "Bulla  contra  errores 
Martini  Lutheri  et  sequacium"  (Bull  against  the  errors 
of  Martin  Luther  and  his  followers). 

But,  at  length,  our  hero  "fought  the  good  fight, 
and  the  time  of  his  departure  was  at  hand."  He  had 
accomplished  the  work  that  had  been  given  him  to 
do ;  and  now  he  was  called  to  his  reward.  His  death 
was  a  beautiful  epitome  of  his  life ;  when  speech  had 
failed  him  for  aught  beside,  he  responded  to  the  name 
of  his  Saviour.  It  was  fitting,  therefore,  when  the 
mortal  part  of  this  truly  great  man  was  being  con- 
veyed to  its  final  resting-place,  in  the  Cathedral  of 
Wittenberg,  that  his  sorrowing  friends  and  attendants 
should  chant  one  of  the  most  touching  of  the  hj-mns 
he  had  composed,  while  he  was  yet  with  them  :  "  Out 
of  the  depths  I  cry  to  Thee."  Here,  in  the  very 
church,  at  the  doors  of  which  he  had  first  aflixed  his 
celebrated  "theses,"  did  they  now  sing  those  irrepres- 
sible heart-utterances  that  had  so  stirred  all  Germany. 
One  of  these  hymns,  or  rather  psalms,  Luther's  most 
characteristic  one,  "  Eine  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott" 
(God  is  our  refuge  in  distress),  which  was  often  called 
the  Church's  Battle-hymn,  was  written  on  the  occasion 
of  the  evangelical  princes  delivering  that  Protest  at 
the  Second  Diet  of  Spires,  in  1529,  from  which  we 
Protestants  derive  the  name;  and,  in  1530,  the  Lu- 
therans presented  their  Confession  of  Faith,  at  Augs- 


92       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

burg.  When  Melancthon  was  at  Weimar,  n*^  heard 
a  little  child  sing  this  hymn,  in  the  street,  and  con- 
fessed how  it  had  comforted  him.  The  first  line  of 
this  hymn  was  inscribed  upon  Luther's  tomb.  The 
hymn  we  shall  refer  to  again. 

Martin  Luther,  it  has  been  said,  is  regarded  by  his 
countrymen  as  the  original  of  the  German  mind, — 
the  protot3-pe  of  all  that  is  most  distinctive  in  German 
modes  of  thought  and  speech.  He  was  no  less  the 
representative  of  the  German  Protestant  Reformation. 
Others,  with  Zwinglius,  John  Huss,  and  Jerome  of 
Prague,  were  pioneers  in  the  great  crusade;  but 
Luther  was  the  great  focal  centre  of  influence  that 
energized  and  sustained  its  action,  and  led  it  on  to 
a  glorious  consummation.  Luther,  therefore,  is  the 
parent  source,  alike  of  German  literature  and  Chris- 
tian liberty  and  civilization  for  the  world. 

The  critic  Gervinus  observes,  "The  language  of 
Luther  is  of  such  wondrous  purity,  and  its  influence 
on  his  immediate  contemporaries  was  so  great,  that  it 
may  be  regarded  as  the  basis  of  our  modern  high 
German."  His  translation  of  the  Scriptures,  although 
not  the  first  German  version,  was  yet  the  first  familiarly 
read  by  all  classes.  It  was  also  the  best,  and  is  still 
regarded  as  such.  Heine  says,  "  He  was  not  only 
the  greatest,  but  the  most  German  of  our  histor}-- ; 
he  was  not  only  the  tongue,  but  the  sword  of  hi? 
time." 

His  biographers  portray  him,  as  to  his  physique, 
sturdy  and  stalwart,  plebeian  in  feature,  and,  to  quote 
Carlyle's  words,  "a  wild  amount  of  passionate  energy 
and  appetite  !  But  in  his  dark  eyes  were  floods  of 
sorrow ;  and  deepest  melancholy,  sweetness,  and  mys- 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  93 

tery  were  all  there.  Often  did  there  seem  to  meet  in 
Luther  the  very  opposite  poles  in  man's  character. 
He,  for  example,  for  whom  Richter  had  said  his 
words  were  half  battles,  —  he,  when  he  first  began  to 
preach,  suffered  unheard-of  agony.  'Oh,  Dr.  Stau- 
pitz.  Dr.  Staupitz,'  said  he  to  the  vicar-general  of  his 
order,  '  I  cannot  do  it ;  I  shall  die  in  three  months. 
Indeed,  I  cannot  do  it.' 

"  Dr.  Staupitz,  a  wise  and  considerate  man,  said 
upon  this,  'Well,  Sir  Martin,  if  you  must  die,  you 
must ;  but  remember  that  they  need  good  heads  up 
yonder  too.  So  preach,  man,  preach,  and  then  live 
or  die  as  it  happens.'  So  Luther  preached  and  lived, 
and  he  became,  indeed,  one  great  whirlwind  of  ener- 
gy, to  work  without  resting  in  this  world."  .  .  .  And 
then,  citing  the  "Table  Talk"  for  an  example  of  the 
characteristic  tendencies  of  this  true  man,  —  amidst 
all  his  denunciations  and  curses,  —  Carlj'le  selects  the 
following  passage  :  — 

"We  see  in  it  a  little  bird,  having  alighted  at  sunset 
on  the  bough  of  a  pear-tree  that  grew  in  Luther's 
garden.  Luther  looked  upon  it,  and  said,  'That 
little  bird,  how  it  covers  its  head  with  wings,  and 
will  sleep  there,  so  still  and  fearless,  though  over  it 
are  the  infinite  starry  spaces,  and  the  great  blue 
depths  of  immensity.  Yet  it  fears  not :  it  is  at  home. 
The  God  that  made  it,  too,  is  there.'  The  same 
gentle  spirit  of  lyrical  admiration  is  in  the  other  pas- 
sages of  his  book.  Coming  home  from  Leipsic  in 
the  autumn  season,  he  breaks  forth  into  loving  wonder 
at  the  fields  of  corn.  '  How  it  stands  there,'  he  says, 
'erect  on  its  beautiful  taper  stem,  and  bending  its 
beautiful  golden  head  with  bread  in  it,  —  the  bread 


1^4  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

of  man  sent  to  him  another  year.'  Such  thoughts  as 
these  are  as  little  windows  through  which  we  gaze 
into  the  interior  of  the  depths  of  Martin  Luther's  soul, 
and  see  visible,  across  its  tempests  and  clouds,  a 
whole  heaven  of  light  and  love.  He  might  have 
painted,  he  might  have  sung  ;  could  have  been 
beautiful  like  Raphael,  great  like  Michael  Angelo." 
Thus  have  we  seen,  that,  in  the  great  drama  of  the 
German  Reformation,  one  colossal  figure  stands  prom- 
inently forth,  —  that  of  Luther;  but  the  gentle  and 
loving  spirit  of  his  friend,  Melancthon,  did  his  part 
to  temper  the  asperity  and  fiery  ardor  of  his  leader ; 
while  the  great  work  was  in  progress  in  Switzer- 
land, under  the  guardianship  of  Zwingli,  —  a  name 
that  ranks  second  only  to  that  of  Luther,  and  be- 
tween the  two  a  singular  parallel  seems  to  have  pre- 
vailed, —  or  rather,  we  should  say,  a  remarkable 
contrast  was  exhibited.  Zwingli  and  Luther  were 
born  within  a  few  weeks  of  each  other ;  the  former  of 
wealthy,  the  latter  of  poor,  parents.  The  one  had  a 
teacher  remarkable  for  learning ;  the  other,  one  for 
his  cruel  severity,  —  having  once  whipped  a  pupil  fif- 
teen times  in  one  forenoon.  Both  these  reformers 
had  excellent  voices ;  but  one  only  made  his  available 
for  his  bread.  Both  became  acquainted  with  the 
Bible  about  the  same  time,  1502  ;  Zwingli  at  Basle, 
and  Luther  at  Erfurt.  About  the  year  1505,  the 
first  finds  a  friend,  who  remains  faithful  to  him 
through  life  ;  the  second  loses,  in  a  terrible  manner, 
such  a  one,  which  makes  him  turn  monk.  Both  dis- 
cover the  corruptions  of  the  papal  system  ;  and,  in  the 
year  15 17,  both  obtain  peace  through  faith  in  Christ. 
Zwingli    attacks    fearlessly   the    mummeries    of   the 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  95 

Church ;  Luther  assails  the  traffic  in  indulgences, 
and,  without  intending  it,  shakes  the  papacy  to  its 
very  foundations. 

The  great  reformers  were  more  strongly  contrasted 
in  death  than  in  life.  The  fiery  Luther  died  peace- 
fully in  his  bed,  at  the  ripe  age  of  sixty-three  ;  at  forty- 
seven,  the  gentle  Zwingli  perished  on  the  battle-field. 
When  the  war,  which  he  had  vainly  tried  to  prevent, 
broke  out  between  the  Protestant  and  Papal  cantons 
of  Switzerland,  the  pastor  accompanied  his  brethren  in 
the  faith,  as  field-preacher,  to  the  conflict.  In  the 
midst  of  the  action,  while  bending  down  to  comfort 
with  the  words  of  life  a  fallen  countryman,  a  stone 
struck  his  helmet  with  such  force  that  he  fell  to  the 
ground.  On  his  attempting  to  rise,  a  hostile  spear 
gave  him  a  fatal  stab.  He  had  fallen  near  a  tree. 
He  was  leaning  on  it;  his  hands  were  clasped,  his 
lips  moved  in  prayer,  while  his  eyes  were  directed 
lieavenward.  In  this  state,  a  party  of  marauding  sol- 
diers found  him.  "Will  you  confess?  Shall  we 
fetch  a  priest?"  they  cr}^  to  him.  The  tongue  which 
had  so  eloquently  combated  error  is  dumb,  but  a 
motion  of  the  head  signifies  a  negative.  "Then  call 
upon  the  Mother  of  God  and  the  blessed  saints  in  your 
heart,"  they  shout  to  him.  Again  he  refuses.  "Die, 
then,  obstinate  heretic,"  said  an  officer  from  Unter- 
walden,  and  gave  him  a  deadly  blow.  Nor  did  the 
contrast  end  here.  The  remains  of  Luther  were  borne 
to  the  tomb  by  a  funeral  procession  of  extraordinary 
pomp ;  the  body  of  Zwingli  was  quartered  by  the 
common  hangman,  and  the  ashes  mixed  with  the 
ashes  of  a  swine,  that  it  might  be  impossible  f(3r  his 
friends  and  admirers  to  identif)'  his  remains. 


g6  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

It  was  not  only  among  princes  and  in  palaces,  or 
in  cathedrals  and  cloisters,  that  the  friends  and  advo- 
cates of  the  Ref  )rmation  were  to  be  found ;  they  were 
yet  more  numerously  scattered  among  the  "  common 
people."  Among  this  worthy  class,  there  was  a  nota- 
ble shoemaker,  —  one  Hans  Sachs,  of  Nuremberg; 
who,  after  some  chequered  experiences,  tunes  his  lyre 
to  the  service  of  the  Reformed  doctrine ;  and,  since 
the  minstrel's  song  had  ceased  in  the  feudal  castle,  no 
music  had  so  stirred  and  aroused  the  German  people  as 
his  rude  Christian  lyrics.  Perhaps  it  would  be  diflicult 
to  decide  whether  this  plebeian  poet,  or  the  Elector  of 
Saxony,  achieved  the  most  in  ushering  in  the  glorious 
era  of  the  Reformation. 

"  The  recent  intellectual  discoveries  of  the  age  had 
diffused  a  multitude  of  new  ideas  through  every  coun- 
try, with  inconceivable  rapidity.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
minds  of  men,  which  had  slept  for  ages,  would,  by 
their  activity,  redeem  the  time  they  had  lost.  Printed 
speech  had  taken  to  itself  wings  that  carried  it,  as  the 
wind  wafts  certain  seeds,  into  the  remotest  regions."  * 
When  Zwingli,  "the  hope  of  Switzerland  and  of  the 
Protestant  Church,"  was  suffering  from  an  attack  of 
the  plague,  and  thought  to  be  dying,  he  gave  utter- 
ance in  German  to  the  following  plaintive  strain  :  — 

Death's  at  my  door,  walks  to  my  side  ! 
Hand  of  all  power,  in  Thee  I  hide  ! 
Christ,  in  alarm  I  beg  for  aid  ; 
Lift  Thy  pierced  arm,  break  the  foe's  blade. 
But  if,  at  noon.  Thou  call'st  me  home, 
'Tis  not  too  soon  :  Jesus,  I  come  ! 

Meanwhile,  the  disease  seemed  to  be  gaining  upon 
him;  and,  with  the  little  power  remaining  to  him,  he 
faintly  said,  — 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  97 

I'm  near  my  goal,  and  want  Thy  cheer  ! 

Body  and  soul  dissolve  with  fear ; 

Death  aims  his  blow,  —  my  tongue  is  dumb, 

My  senses  go,  my  hour  is  come  ! 

The  fiend  is  feeling  for  his  prey ; 

He  is  stealing  life  away. 

I'll  fear  no  more  his  voice  or  eye  : 

Jesus,  before  Thy  cross  I  lie  ! 

But  the  gentle  reformer  had  not  yet  finished  his  work. 
Life's  smouldering  spark  glowed  again.  The  plague 
left  its  prey,  and  he  poured  out  his  heart  anew. 

Father,  I  live  !  healed  of  my  pain. 
Myself  I  give  to  Thee  again  ! 
From  all  things  wrong,  oh,  keep  me  free, 
And  let  my  tongue  sing  only  Thee  ! 
The  unknown  hour  will  come  at  length, 
With  darker  power  to  crush  my  strength. 
But  I've  no  dread ;  for  then  I'll  rise. 
With  Hfted  head,  above  the  skies. 

Zwingli  could  hardly  hold  his  pen,  when,  to  the 
indescribable  joy  of  his  family,  they  received  the 
tidings  of  his  recovery  in  his  own  handwriting. 

In  Luther,  we  see  a  tendency  to  hypochondria,  in 
his  occasional  fits  of  spiritual  and  physical  depression, 
which  we  cannot  contemplate  without  a  feeling  of 
awe ;  but  the  domestic  and  social  aspects  of  the  re- 
former complete  the  picture,  and  we  see  him  in  the 
ruddy  light  of  his  fireside  a  cheerful,  solid,  kindly, 
humorous  man.  Then,  we  all  know  how  he  loved 
und  valued  music ;  society  he  valued  equally.  He 
was  fond  of  children's  prattle ;  and  his  sorrow  for  the 
death  of  his  little  daughter  Magdalen  is  most  aflfecting. 
His  mind  was  richly  stored  with  classical  and  biblical 
lore  ;  and  his  thoughts  were  like  some  of  the  works 
of  mediaeval  art,  superbly  illuminated.  He  colored 
7 


pS  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

his  conceptions  with  the  brilHant  hues  of  all  objects  of 
physical  beauty. 

"Music,"  said  Luther,  "is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  noble  gifts  of  God.  It  is  the  best  solace  to  a  man 
in  sorrow;  it  quiets,  quickens,  and  refreshes  the  heart. 
I  give  music  the  next  place,  and  the  highest  honor, 
after  theology.  We  see  hjw  David,  and  all  the 
saints,  clothed  their  godly  thoughts  in  verse  and 
song."  When  afflicted  in  his  conscience,  he  used 
to  have  recourse  to  this  recreative  agency.  On  one 
of  these  occasions,  when  he  had  shut  himself  up  for 
two  days,  some  musicians  breaking  open  his  door, 
found  him  on  the  floor  in  a  fainting  fit,  —  when  they 
brought  him  back  to  consciousness,  not  so  much  by 
medicine  or  food,  as  by  their  concert  of  sweet  sounds. 
"Luther's  Carol  for  Christmas,  written  for  his  own 
child  Hans,  is  still  sung  from  the  dome  of  the  Kreuz- 
kirche  in  Dresden,  before  daybreak  on  the  morning 
of  Christmas-day.  It  refers  to  the  custom  then  and 
long  afterwards  prevalent  in  Germany,  of  making,  at 
Christmas-time,  representations  of  the  manger  with 
the  infant  Jesus.  But  the  most  famous  of  his  hymns 
is  his  noble  version  of  Psalm  xlvi.,  'God  is  my  strong- 
hold firm  and  sure,'  which  may  be  called  the  national 
hymn  of  his  Protestant  countrymen.  Luther's  hymns 
are  wanting  in  harmony  and  correctness  of  metre, 
to  a  degree  which  often  makes  them  jarring  to  our 
modern  ears ;  but  they  are  always  full  of  fire  and 
strength,  of  clear  Christian  faith,  and  brave,  joyful 
trust  in  God."* 

It  was  the  "Lion-hearted  Luther"  that  so  oft  solaced 
himself  with  sacred  song  during  the  stormy  encoun- 

'VInkworth. 
•  D'AubiRiie. 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  99 

ters  he  had  to  pass  through.  Coleridge  says,  "He  did 
as  much  for  the  Reformation  by  his  hymns,  as  by  his 
translation  of  the  Bible,"  since  his  hj-mns  made  a  bond 
of  union  among  men  who  knew  little  of  Creeds  and 
Articles.  The  common  people  of  Germany  sang  Lu- 
ther's strong  scriptural  words  to  his  o\\'n  tunes  with 
all  their  hearts ;  for,  unlike  the  idle  listening  to  a 
Latin  litany,  they  were  able  to  comprehend  their 
deep  meaning.  "  The  children  learned  Luther's  hymns 
in  the  cottage,  and  martyrs  sang  them  on  the  scaf- 
fold." 

In  the  year  1530,  during  the  Diet  of  Augsburg, 
Luther's  mental  anxiety  so  overcame  his  bodily 
strength,  that  he  fainted ;  on  recovering,  he  said, 
"Come,  let  us  defy  the  devil,  and  praise  God  by 
smging  the  hymn,  'Out  of  the  depths  I  cry  to  Thee.' 
This  hymn  has  often  comforted  the  sick  and  dying. 
It  is  said  to  have  been  the  last  Protestant  hymn  sung 
in  Strasburg  Cathedral."* 

The  great  Reformation  has  won  from  Germany 
thousands  of  sacred  songs;  and  the  succession  have, 
in  the  general  chorus  of  other  Christian  lands,  had 
their  respective  choirs  of  singers. 

It  has  been  truly  said,  that  the  hymns  of  Germany 
are  her  national  liturg3^  These  hymns,  ranging 
through  three  centuries  of  time,  have  been  classified  into 
three  divisions  :  representing,  severally,  the  epoch  of 
the  Reformation  ;  the  great  religious  struggle  of  the 
thirty  years'  war ;  and  the  revival  of  religion  in  the 
days  of  Franke  and  Zinzendorf,  through  the  earlier 
half  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  ancient  church 
in    Bohemia,    called   the    "United    Brethren,"   which 

*  Miller's  Our  Hymns,  &c. 


lOO  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

dates  back  to  the  eighth  century,  was  originated  by 
two  Greek  monks,  who  first  introduced  Christianity 
into  that  country.  In  the  eleventh  century,  it  sepa- 
rated from  the  Romish  Church  :  after  which,  it  suf- 
fered a  series  of  bitter  persecutions,  in  one  of  which 
John  Huss  was  burnt.  Amidst  all  their  privations 
and  sufferings,  the  "Brethren"  occupied  themselves 
in  printing  the  Bible ;  no  fewer  than  three  editions 
having  been  published  in  Bohemia  before  the  Refor- 
mation. 

That  event  spread  great  joy  among  them  ;  and,  sub- 
sequently, the}'  formed  a  settlement  on  the  estate  of 
Count  Zinzendorf,  in  Saxony,  whence  they  spread 
into  other  countries. 

Wetzel,  in  17 18,  estimated  the  printed  German 
hymns  at  fifty-five  thousand,  filling  about  three  hun- 
dred volumes.  Hans  Sachs,  who  wrote  about  six 
thousand  of  these  sacred  lyrics,  sent  forth,  from  his 
humble  workshop,  his  brave  and  earnest  songs,  while 
Luther  commenced  his  attack  upon  the  outworks  of 
papal  superstition;  and,  as  already  said,  he  thereby 
accomplished  as  much  in  behalf  of  the  great  event  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  as  did  the  Elector  of  Saxony,  or 
Luther  by  his  sermons,  and  Melancthon  by  his  epis- 
tles. 

John  Huss  translated  several  of  the  works  of  Wick- 
liffe  into  Bohemian.  The  truths  he  held  dear  he 
caused  to  be  written  on  the  walls  of  his  chapel ;  and 
he  put  hymns  into  the  mouths  of  the  people,  which 
became  more  terrible  weapons  than  swords  and  staves. 
The  following  is  a  translation  of  a  martial  ode  by 
Trotznou,  and  sung  by  the  Hussite  army:  — 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  lOI 

Ye  champions  !  who  maintain  God's  everlasting  law, 
Call  on  His  name  again,  towards  His  presence  draw; 
And  soon  your  steady  march  your  foes  shall  overawe. 
Why  should  you  faint  or  fear  ?     He  shall  preserve  you  still ; 
Life,  love,  —  all,  all  that's  dear,  yield  to  His  holy  will ; 
And  He  shall  steel  your  hearts,  and  strengthen  against  ill. 

It  was  the  congregational  singing  of  the  Flussite 
Brethren  which,  it  is  said,  suggested  to  Luther  the 
reconstruction  of  German  hymnology.  His  efforts 
succeeded  in  spreading  a  peculiarity  of  worship,  which 
has  reached  as  far  as  the  German  tongue.  By  means 
of  a  single  hymn  of  Luther,  "Nun  freut  euch  liebe 
Christengemein,"  many  hundreds  were  brought  to  the 
faith,  who  otherwise  would  never  have  heard  Luther's 
name.  "  His  hymns  were  sung  by  people  of  every 
class,  not  only  in  schools  and  churches,  but  in  dwell- 
ings and  shops,  in  markets,  streets,  and  fields."  They 
found  entrance  even  among  adversaries.  Selnecker 
relates,  that,  several  of  the  hymns  having  been  intro- 
duced into  the  chapel-service  of  the  Duke  Henry  of 
Wolfenbiittel,  a  priest  made  complaint.  The  duke 
asked  what  hymns  they  were  against  which  he  pro- 
tested. "May  it  please  your  highness,  they  are  such 
as, '  Oh  that  the  Lord  would  gracious  be  ! '" — "  Hold  !  " 
replied  the  duke  :  "must  the  Devil,  then,  be  gracious? 
«Whose  grace  are  we  to  seek,  if  not  that  of  God  only  ?  " 
The  hymns  continued  to  be  sung  at  court.  In  1529, 
a  Romish  priest  preached  at  Lubeck  ;  and,  just  as  he 
ended  his  homily,  two  boys  struck  up  the  hymn  of 
Luther,  "  O  God,  from  heaven  now  behold  ! "  when 
the  whole  assembly  joined  as  with  one  voice ;  and 
continued  to  do  the  same,  as  often  as  any  preacher 
inveighed  against  the  evangelical  doctrine.     At  Heidel- 


I02  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

berg,  the  Reformation  thus  made  its  way  by  singing. 
On  one  occasion,  a  priest  was  about  to  begin  the  ser- 
vice, standing  at  the  high  altar,  when  a  single  voice 
led  oft'  the  beginning  of  Paul  Speratus's  famous 
hymn,  "Es  ist  das  Ileil  uns  kommen  her."  The  vast 
congregation  immediately  joined ;  and  the  Elector, 
taking  this  as  a  sufticient  suffrage  of  his  people,  pro- 
ceeded to  introduce  the  communion  in  both  kinds  ;  for, 
hitherto,  Frederick,  from  fear  of  the  Emperor,  had 
delayed  suppressing  the  mass.  It  was  Luther's  hymns 
and  tunes  combined  that  did  the  work. 

It  was  in  1467  that  the  followers  of  Huss  formed 
themselves  into  a  separate  and  organized  church, 
known  as  that  of  the  Bohemian  and  Moravian  Breth- 
ren ;  one  of  the  distinctive  peculiarities  of  which  was  the 
free  use  of  hymns  and  prayers  in  their  mother  tongue. 
"Many  such  hymns  were  already  in  existence,  and 
others  were  soon  written ;  and,  in  1504,  they  were 
collected  and  published  by  the  archbishop,  Lucas,  — 
the  first  example  of  a  hymn-book,  consisting  of  origi- 
nal compositions  in  the  vernacular,  to  be  found  in  any 
Western  nation  which  had  once  owned  the  supremacy 
of  Rome."  * 

Goethe  was  the  first  to  discover  that  Hans  Sachs 
possessed  more  than  ordinary  merit.  He  managed  to 
make  shoes  and  verses  at  the  same  time ;  was  born,  in 
1494,  at  Nuremberg, — one  of  the  first  cities  of  Ger- 
many to  welcome  the  new  doctrine  ;  and  soon  our  poet 
became  vocal  in  behalf  of  its  claims.  During  the 
siege  of  Nuremberg,  in  1561,  he  wrote  a  hymn  of 
hope,  which  has  been  thus  rendered:  f  — 

•  Christian  S'ogers  of  Germany.  t  L>Ta  Gerinanica. 


GERMAN-REFORMATIOJN    KRA.  IO3 

Why  art  thou  thus  cast  down,  my  heart  ? 
Why  troubled,  why  dost  mourn  apart, 

O'er  naught  but  earthly  wealth  ? 
Trust  in  thy  God,  be  not  afraid, 
He  is  thy  Friend,  who  all  things  made  ! 

Dost  think  thy  prayers  He  doth  not  heed  ? 
He  knows  full  well  what  thou  dost  need,— 

And  heaven  and  earth  are  His  ! 
My  Father  and  my  God,  who  still 
Is  with  my  soul  in  every  ill. 

The  rich  man  in  his  wealth  confides ; 
But  in  my  God  my  trust  abides. 

Laugh  as  ye  will,  I  hold 
This  one  thing  fast,  that  He  hath  taught : 
Who  trusts  in  God  shall  want  for  naught. 

Yes,  Lord :  Thou  art  as  rich  to-day 
As  thou  hast  been,  and  shall  be  aye : 

I  rest  on  Thee  alone  ; 
Thy  riches  to  my  soul  be  given, 
And  'tis  enough  for  earth  and  heaven  ! 

Here  are  some   stanzas  of  the  celebrated  German 
funeral  hymn,  of  Sach  :  — 

Come  forth  !  come  on,  with  solemn  song  ! 
The  road  is  short,  the  rest  is  long ; 
The  Lord  brought  here,  He  calls  away  1 

Make  no  delay, 
This  home  was  for  a  passing  day. 

Here  in  an  inn  a  stranger  dwelt ; 
Here  joy  and  grief  by  turns  he  felt ; 
Poor  dwelling,  now  we  close  thy  door! 

The  task  is  o'er, 
The  sojourner  returns  no  more. 

Now  of  a  lasting  home  possessed, 
He  goes  to  seek  a  deeper  rest ; 
Good-night !  the  day  was  sultry  here. 

In  toil  and  fear ; 
Good-night !  the  night  is  cool  and  clear. 


I04  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Chime  on,  ye  bells  !  Again  begin, 
And  ring  the  Sabbath  morning  in  ; 
The  laborer's  week-day  work  is  done. 

The  rest  begun, 
Which  Christ  has  for  His  people  won  ! 

Luther's  "'Song  of  praise  for  the  great  benefits 
which  God  has  manifested  to  us  in  Christ,'  in  the 
original,"  says  Mrs.  Charles,  "  seems  to  have  pressed 
into  it  the  history  of  a  lifetime,  — to  be  the  essence  of 
that  'Commentary  on  the  Galatians,'  which  contained, 
as  it  were,  the  essence  of  Luther's  life." 

Dear  Christian  people,  all  rejoice. 

Each  soul  with  joy  upspringing  ; 
Pour  forth  one  song,  with  heart  and  voice, 

With  love  and  gladness  singing. 
Give  thanks  to  God,  our  Lord  above, 
Thanks  for  His  miracle  of  love ! 

Dearly  He  hath  redeemed  us  1 

The  devil's  captive,  bound  I  lay,  — 

Lay  in  death's  cliains  forlorn; 
My  sins  distressed  me  night  and  day, 

The  sin  within  me  born  ; 
1  could  not  do  the  thing  I  would, 
In  all  my  life  was  nothing  good. 

Sin  had  possessed  me  wholly. 

Then  God  saw,  with  deep  pity  moved, 

My  grief  that  knew  no  measure  ; 
Pitying,  He  saw,  and  freely  loved, — 

To  save  me  was  His  pleasure. 
The  Father's  heart  to  me  was  stirred. 
He  saved  me  with  no  sovereign  word,  — 

His  very  best  it  cost  Him  ! 

He  spoke  to  His  beloved  Son, 
With  infinite  compassion, — 
"  Go,  my  Heart's  most  precious  crown. 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  I05 

Be  to  the  lost  Salvation  ! 
Death,  his  relentless  tyrant,  stay ; 
And  bear  him  from  his  sins  away 

With  Thee  to  live  for  ever  !  " 

Willing,  the  Son  took  that  behest ; 

Born  of  a  maiden  mother. 
To  His  own  earth  He  came  a  guest, 

And  made  Himself  my  brother. 
All  secretly  He  went  His  way. 
Veiled  in  my  mortal  flesh  He  lay, 

And  thus  the  foe  He  vanquished. 

We  have  not  given  the  whole  of  the  verses.  A 
curious  use  was  made  of  this  hymn  in  the  year  1557, 
when,  a  number  of  princes  belonging  to  the  reformed 
religion  being  convened  at  Frankfort,  they  wished  to 
have  an  evangelical  *  service  in  the  Church  of  St. 
Bartholomew.  A  large  congregation  assembled,  but 
the  pulpit  was  occupied  by  a  Roman-Catholic  priest, 
who  proceeded  to  preach  according  to  his  own  views. 
After  listening  for  some  time  in  indignant  silence, 
the  whole  congregation  rose,  and  began  to  sing  this 
hymn,  till  they  fairly  sang  the  priest  out  of  Church. 

Of  the  score  or  rnore  of  English  versions  of  Luther's 
great  hymn,  one  of  the  most  recent  and  best  is  by 
Dr.  Reynolds,  of  Chicago.  He  fitly  designates  this 
noble  hymn  the  imperishable  peean  of  the  Reforma- 
tion. In  spite  of  their  i-ugged,  inharmonious  measure, 
Luther's*  lyrics  are  full  of  his  characteristic  fire  and 
energy.  It  was  this  hymn  that  was  chanted  over  his 
grave,  amid  sobs  and  tears  :  — 

A  safe  stronghold  our  God  is  still,  a  sure  defence  and  weapon  ; 
He  will  deliver  all  from  ill  that  unto  us  may  happen. 

Our  old  and  bitter  foe 

Is  fain  to  work  us  woe  ; 

*  i.e.  Protestant. 


lo6  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

In  strength  and  cunning,  he 
Is  armed  full  fearfully  ; 
On  earth  is  not  his  equal. 

By  strength  of  ours  we  naught  can  do,  the  strife  full  soon  were  ended ; 
But  for  us  fights  the  Champion  true,  by  God  Himself  commended. 

And  dost  thou  ask  His  name  ? 

'Tis  Jesus  Christ !     The  same 

Whom  Lord  of  Hosts  we  call, 

God  blessed  over  all,  — 
He'll  hold  the  field  triumphant. 

Though  Satan's  hosts  the  earth  should  fill,  all  watching  to  devour  us, 
We  tremble  not,  we  fear  no  ill,  they  cannot  overpower  us. 

This  world's  false  prince  may  still 

Scowl  fiercely,  as  he  will, 

His  threatenings  are  but  vain. 

We  shall  unharmed  remain  : 
A  word  shall  overthrow  him. 

God's  Word  unshaken  shall  remain,  whatever  foes  invade  us  ! 
Christ  standeth  on  the  battle-plain,  with  His  own  strength  to  aid  us ! 

What  though  they  take  our  life, 

Our  goods,  fame,  children,  wife  ."* 

E'en  when  their  worst  is  done, 

They  have  but  little  won  : 
The  kingdom  ours  abideth  ! 

Luther's  first  hymn  was,  it  is  beheved,  called  forth 
by  the  martyrdom  of  two  young  Christian  monks,  who 
were  burnt  alive,  at  Brussels,  by  the  Sophists :  — 

Flung  to  the  heedless  winds,  or  on  the  waters  cast. 

Their  ashes  shall  be  watched,  and  gathered  at  the  last. 

And,  from  that  scattered  dust,  around  us  and  abroad, 

Shall  spring  a  plenteous  seed  of  witnesses  for  God. 

Jesus  hath  now  received  their  latest  living  breath, 

Yet  vain  is  Satan's  boast  of  victory  in  their  death. 

Still,  still,  thougli  dead,  they  speak,  and,  trumpet-tongued,  proclaim, 

To  many  a  wakening  land,  the  one  availing  Name  ! 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  IO7 

Hear,  now,  his  beautiful  hymn  of  Faith  :  — 

When  the  sky  is  black  and  lowering,  when  thy  path  in  life  is  drear, 
Upward  lift  thy  steadfast  glances,  'mid  the  maze  of  sorrow  here. 
From  the  beaming  Fount  of  gladness  shall  descend  a  radiance 

bright ; 
And  the  grave  shall  be  a  garden,  and  the  hours  of  darkness,  light. 
For  the  Lord  will  hear  and  answer  when  in  faith  His  people  pray ; 
Whatsoe'er  He  hath  appointed  shall  but  work  thee  good  alway. 
E'en    thy  very   hairs   are   numbered,   God   commands  when   one 

shall  fall ; 
And  the  Lord  is  with  His  people,  helping  each  and  blessing  all. 

Then,  there  is  the  grand,  massive  chant,  evident- 
ly inspired  by  the  "Dies  Irce ; "  often  erroneously 
ascribed  to  Luther,  which,  although  worthy  of  him, 
was  written  by  Ringwaldt,  in  1585  •  — 

Great  God  !  what  do  I  see  and  hear  ! 

The  end  of  things  created  ! 
The  Judge  of  mankind  doth  appear, 

On  clouds  of  glory  seated  ! 
The  trumpet  sounds,  the  graves  restore 
The  dead  which  they  contained  before : 

Prepare  my  soul  tc  meet  Him  ! 

The  dead  m  Christ  shall  first  arise 

At  the  last  trumpet's  sounding,  — 
Caught  up  to  meet  Him  in  the  skies, 

With  joy  their  Lord  surrounding: 
No  gloomy  fears  their  souls  dismay, 
His  presence  sheds  eternal  day 

On  those  prepared  to  meet  Him. 

Here  are  some  admirable  lines,  from  the  German, 
on  the  "Name  that  is  above  every  name  ; "  — 

To  the  Name  that  brings  salvation,  honor,  worship,  laud  we  pay ; 
That  for  many  a  generation  hid  in  God's  foreknowledge  lay, 
Name  of  gladness,  Name  of  pleasure,  by  the  tongue  ineffable  ; 
Name  of  sweetness,  passing  measure,  to  the  ear  delectable  ! 
'Tis  our  safeguard  and  our  treasure,  'tis  our  shield  'gainst  sin  and 
hell! 


I08  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Nicolaus  Hermann,  who  died  in  the  year  of  our 
Redemption,  156 1,  wrote  this  simple  and  sweet  melody 
for  evening-time  :  — 

Sunk  is  the  sun's  last  beam  of  light, 

And  darkness  wraps  the  world  in  night : 

Christ !  light  us  with  Thy  heavenly  ray, 

Nor  let  our  feet  in  darkness  stray. 

Thanks,  Lord,  that  Thou,  throughout  the  day, 

Hast  kept  all  grief  and  harm  away ; 

That  angels  tarried  round  about 

Our  coming  in  and  going  out. 

Whate'er  of  wrong  we've  done  or  said, 

Let  not  on  us  the  charge  be  laid ; 

That,  through  Thy  free  forgiveness  blest, 

In  peaceful  slumber  we  may  rest. 

Thy  guardian  angels  round  us  place, 

All  evil  from  our  couch  to  chase  : 

Both  soul  and  body,  while  we  sleep, 

In  safety,  gracious  Father,  keep. 

Among  these  German  minstrels  we  find  some  em- 
inent women  :  one  was  the  Princess  Louisa  Henrietta 
of  Brandenberg,  who  wrote  a  beautiful  poem  on  the 
Resurrection,  "Jesus,  meine  Zuversicht."  We  quote 
from  the  English  version  of  Mrs.  Charles:  — 

Jesus,  my  eternal  trust  and  my  Saviour,  ever  liveth  ! 

This  I  know ;  and  deep  and  just  is  the  peace  this  knowledge  giveth, 

Though  death's  lingering  night  may  start 

Many  a  question  in  my  heart. 
Jesus  lives  eternally  :   I  shall  also  live  in  Him  ! 
Where  my  Saviour  is,  shall  be  !     What  can  make  this  bright  hope 
dim? 

Will  the  Head  one  member  lose, 

Nor  through  each  its  life  diffuse  ? 
Hope's  strong  chain  around  me  bound,  still  shall  twine  my  Saviour 

grasping; 
And  my  hand  of  faith  be  found,  as  death  left  it,  Jesus  clasping ! 

No  assault  the  foe  can  make. 

E'er  that  deathless  clasp  shall  break  ! 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  100 

I  am  flesh,  and  therefore,  duly  dust  and  ashes  must  become ; 
This  I  know,  but  know  as  truly,  He  will  wake  me  from  the  tomb ! 

That  with  Him,  whate'er  betide, 

I  may  evermore  abide  ! 
God  Himself,  in  that  blest  place,  shall  a  glorious  body  give  me  ; 
I  shall  see  His  blissful  face  ;  to  His  heavens  He  will  receive  me  ! 

Then,  from  this  rejoicing  heart. 

Every  weakness  shall  depart ! 

In  Professor  Schaff 's  "  Christ  in  Song,"  we  find  a 
translation  of  a  remarkable  poem,  which  Knapp  pro- 
nounces "the  sweetest  and  most  excellent  of  all  German 
hymns."  It  is  by  Dr.  P.  Nicolai,  a  Lutheran  pastor, 
at  Una,  Westphalia.  It  is  still  a  favorite  German 
hymn,  celebrating  the  spiritual  union  of  Christ  and 
his  Church.  It  was  written  during  a  prevailing  pes- 
tilence in  1597.  We  give  four  stanzas  of  this  fine 
hymn.     The  translation  is  Dr.  Harbaugh's. 

How  lovely  shines  the  Morning  Star ! 
The  nations  see  and  hail  afar 
The  light  in  Judah  shining. 
Thou  David's  Son  of  Jacob's  race, 
My  Bridegroom,  and  my  King  of  grace, 
For  Thee  my  heart  is  pining ! 

Lowly,  holy,  great,  and  glorious, 

Thou  victorious 
Prince  of  graces, 
Filling  all  the  heavenly  places  ! 

Now  richly  to  my  waiting  heart, 
O  Thou,  my  God,  deign  to  impart 

The  grace  of  love  undying. 
In  Thy  blest  Body  let  me  be,  — 
E'en  as  the  branch  is  in  the  tree,  — 

Thy  life,  my  life  supplying. 
Sighing,  crying  for  the  savor 
Of  Thy  favor ; 
Resting  never 
Till  I  rest  in  Thee  for  ever ! 


J 10  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Wake,  wake  your  harps  to  sweetest  songs  ! 
In  praise  of  Him  to  whom  belongs 

All  praise  ;  join  hearts  and  voices. 
For  evermore,  O  Christ !  in  Thee,  — 
Thee,  all  in  all  of  love  to  me,  — 

My  grateful  heart  rejoices. 
With  joy,  employ  hymns  victorious, 
Glad  and  glorious  ; 

E'er  be  given 

Honor  to  the  King  of  Heaven  ! 

Oh,  joy  !  to  know  that  Thou,  my  Friend, 
Art  Lord,  Beginning  without  end  : 

The  First  and  Last  — Eternal ! 
And  Thou,  at  length,  O  glorious  grace  ! 
Wilt  take  me  to  that  holy  place. 

The  home  of  joys  supernal ! 
Amen,  amen  ! 

These  charming  stanzas  are  by  one  of  the  anony- 
mous German  hymnists :  — 

Smiling,  a  bright-eyed  seraph  bent  over  an  infant's  dream  ; 

To  view  his  mirrored  form  he  leant,  as  in  the  crystal  stream. 

"  Fair  infant,  come,"  he  whispered  low,  "  and  leave  the  earth  with 

rjie, — 
To  a  bright  and  happy  world  we'll  go  :  this  is  no  home  for  thee." 
Each  sparkling  pleasure  knows  alloy,  nor  cloudless  skies  are  here ; 
A  care  there  is  for  every  joy,  for  every  smile  a  tear. 
The  heart  that  dances  free  and  light,  may  soon  be  chained  by 

sorrow ; 
The  sun  that  sets  in  calm  to-night,  may  rise  in  storm  to-morrow ! 
Alas  !  to  cloud  a  brow  so  fair,  that  griefs  and  pains  should  rise ! 
Alas  !  that  this  dark  world  of  care  should  dim  those  laughing  eyes ' 
To  seek  a  brighter  land  with  me,  infant,  thou  wilt  not  fear ; 
For  piteous  Heaven  the  sad  decree  recalls,  that  sent  thee  here  ! " 
It  seemed  on  him  the  sweet  babe  smiled,  his  wings  the  seraph 

spread : 
They're  gone,  —  the  angel  and  the  child.     Poor  mother  !  thy  son  is 

dead !  * 

♦  Hymns  from  the  Land  of  Luther. 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  Ill 


There   is   great  power  in  these   stanzas,   from  the 
German  of  Langbecker  :  — 

What  shall  I  be,  Lord,  when  Thy  radiant  glory, 
As  from  the  grave  I  rise,  encircles  me  ? 
When,  brightly  pictured  in  the  light  before  me, 
What  eye  hath  never  seen,  mine  eyes  shall  see  ? 
What  shall  I  be  ?     Ah,  blessed  and  sublime 
Is  the  dim  prospect  of  that  glorious  time  ! 
What  shall  I  be,  when  days  of  grief  are  ended  ? 

These    impressive    lines   are   from    the   German   of 
Rosegarten  :  — 

Through  night  to  light ;  and  though  to  mortal  eyes 

Creation's  face  a  pall  of  terror  wear. 
Good  cheer,  good  cheer !     The  gloom  of  midnight  flies, 

Then  shall  a  sunrise  follow,  mild  and  fair. 

Through  storm  to  calm ;  and  though  his  thunder  car 
The  rumbling  tempest  drive  through  earth  and  sky, 

Good  cheer,  good  cheer  !     The  elemental  war 
Tells  that  a  blessed  healing  hour  is  nigh. 

Through  cross  to  crown ;  and  though  thy  spirit's  life 

Trials  untold  assail  with  giant  strength, 
Good  cheer,  good  cheer !     Soon  ends  the  bitter  strife. 

And  thou  shalt  reign  in  peace  with  Christ  at  length. 

Through  death  to  life  ;  and  through  this  vale  of  tears, 
And  through  this  thistle-field  of  life,  ascend 

To  the  great  supper  in  that  world,  whose  years 
Of  bliss  unfading,  cloudless,  know  no  end ! 

Prorn  the  German  of  Johann  Hofel :  *  — 

Oh  !  sweetest  words  that  Jesus  could  have  sought. 
To  soothe  the  mourning  widow's  heart,  —  "  Weep  not ! " 
They  fall  with  comfort  on  my  ear. 
When  life  is  dark  and  trouble  near. 


Hymns  from  the  Land  of  Luther 


112  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Words  that  were  spoken  amid  sorrow's  strife, 
And  in  the  very  midst  of  death  and  life  ; 
They  shall  refresh  my  soul  at  last, 
And  strengthen  me  till  life  is  past. 

Oh  !  sweetest  words  that  Jesus  could  have  sought, 
To  cheer  His  weary,  troubled  ones,  —  "Weep  not!" 
Thrice  blessed  words  !     I,  listening,  stay. 
Till  grief  and  sorrow  flee  away  ! 

Joachim  Neander,  who  was  one  of  the  first  and  the 
best  of  the  hymn-writers  of  the  "  Reformed  Church," 
called  his  effusions  "  Bunderslieder "  (Songs  of  the 
Covenant).  In  his  youth,  he  was  a  wild  and  careless 
student  at  Bremen.  One  day,  he  and  two  of  his  com- 
rades went  into  St.  Martin's  Church,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  making  a  jest  of  the  service  :  but  the  sermon 
touched  his  conscience  so  deeply,  that  he  determined 
to  visit  the  preacher  in  private;  and,  from  this  time, 
he  began  to  lead  a  more  circumspect  life.  His  love 
of  the  chase,  however,  still  clung  to  him ;  and,  on  one 
occasion,  he  followed  his  game  on  foot  so  far,  that 
night  came  on,  and  he  utterly  lost  his  way  among 
rocky  and  woody  hills,  where  the  climbing  was  diffi- 
cult even  in  daylight.  He  wandered  about  for  some- 
time, and  then  suddenly  discovered  that  he  was  in  a 
most  dangerous  posidon,  and  that  one  step  forward, 
which  he  was  on  the  point  of  taking,  would  have 
thrown  him  over  a  precipice.  A  feeling  of  horror 
came  over  him,  that  almost  deprived  him  of  the  power 
of  motion  :  and,  in  this  extremity,  he  prayed  earnestly 
to  God  for  help ;  vowing  an  entire  devotion  of  himself 
to  His  service  in  the  future.  All  at  once,  his  courage 
returned:  he  felt  as  though  a  hand  were  leading 
him,   and,   following   the  path  thus  indicated,   he    at 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  II3 

length  reached  his  home  in  safety.  From  this  day, 
he  kept  his  vow  ;  and  a  complete  change  took  place  in 
his  mode  of  life.  In  1674,  he  was  made  head-master 
of  the  grammar-school  at  Dusseldorf,  belonging  to  the 
Reformed  Church.  It  flourished  exceedingly  under 
his  rule  :  but  he  also  set  on  foot  private  religious  meet- 
ings, which  caused  offence ;  and  the  elders,  one  day, 
deposed  him  from  his  mastership,  forbade  him  to 
preach,  and  banished  him  from  the  town.  His  pupils 
would  have  fought  for  him;  but  he  forbade  them,  and 
quietly  submitted  to  the  wrong.  It  was  summer-time, 
and  he  wandered  out  to  a  deep  and  beautiful  glen  near 
Mettmann,  on  the  Rhine  ;  where,  for  some  months,  he 
lived  in  a  cavern,  which  is  still  known  by  the  name 
of  "Neander's  Cave."  In  this  retreat,  he  composed 
many  of  his  hymns  ;  and  among  them  the  following  : 

A  deep  and  holy  awe 
Put  Thou,  my  God,  within  my  inmost  soul. 

While  near  Thy  feet  I  draw  ; 
And  my  heart  sings  in  me,  and  my  voice  praises  Thee ; 
Do  Thou  all  wandering  sense  and  thought  control. 

O  God,  the  crystal  light 
Of  Thy  most  stainless  sunshine  here  is  mine  ; 

It  floods  my  outer  sight ; 
Ah,  let  me  well  discern  Thyself  where'er  I  turn, 
And  see  Thy  power  through  all  Thy  creatures  shine. 

Hark  !  how  the  air  is  sweet 
With  music  from  a  thousand  warbling  throats, 
Which  echo  doth  repeat ; 
To  Thee  I  also  sing,  keep  me  beneath  Thy  wing ; 
Disdain  not  Thou  to  list  my  harsher  notes. 

Ah,  Lord,  the  universe 
IS  bright  and  laughing,  full  of  pomp  and  mirth ; 
Each  summer  doth  rehearse 


114  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

A  tale  for  ever  new,  of  wonders  Thou  canst  do 
In  sunny  skies,  and  on  the  fruitful  earth. 

Thee  all  the  mountains  praise  ; 
The  rocks  and  glens  are  full  of  song  to  Thee ! 

They  bid  me  join  my  lays. 
And  laud  the  Almighty  Rock,  who,  safe  from  every  shock, 
Beneath  Thy  shadow  here  doth  shelter  me  ! 

In  1679,  he  was  called  to  be  pastor  of  the  very 
church  in  Bremen  which  he  had  once  entered  in  mock- 
ery. But  he  only  preached  there  one  year :  he  died 
the  next,  aged  scarcely  forty.  We  are  indebted  for 
this  interesting  glimpse  of  Neander  to  Miss  Wink- 
worth's  "  Christian  Singers  of  Germany." 

The  following,  of  the  plaintive  and  penitential  ordei, 
is  from  his  pen  :  — 

Behold  we  here,  in  grief,  draw  near, 

Pleading  at  Thy  throne,  O  King ! 
To  Thee  each  tear,  each  trembling  fear, 

Jesus,  Son  of  Man,  I  bring. 
Let  me  find  Thee,  let  me  find  Thee,  — 

Me,  a  vile  and  worthless  thing  ! 

Look  down  in  love,  and  from  above 

With  Thy  Spirit  satisfy  ; 
Thou  hast  sought  me,  Thou  hast  bought  me, 

And  Thy  purchase.  Lord,  am  I  ! 
Let  me  find  Thee,  let  me  find  Thee, 

Here  on  earth,  and  then  on  high ! 

Hear  the  broken,  scarcely  spoken 

Utterance  of  my  heart  to  Thee  ; 
All  the  crying,  all  the  sighing 

Of  Thy  child  accepted  be  ; 
Let  me  find  Thee,  let  me  find  Thee, 

Thus  I  pray  vehemently  ! 

Here  are  two  beautiful  stanzas  from  the  same  source, 
on  the  glory  of  God  in  creation  :  — 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.       ^  II5 

Lo,  heaven  and  earth,  and  sea  and  air, 
Their  Maker's  glory  all  declare  ! 
And  thou,  my  soul,  awake  and  sing,  — 
To  Him  thy  praises  also  bring. 
Through  Him,  the  glorious  source  of  day, 
Can  break  the  clouds  of  night  away ; 
The  pomp  of  stars,  the  moon's  soft  light. 
Praise  Him  through  all  the  silent  night ! 

The  beautiful  penitential  hymn  just  quoted  was,  we 
believe,  the  last  he  wrote,  as  it  bears  date  the  year 
preceding  his  death. 

The  name  of  Joachim  Neander  very  naturally  re- 
minds us  of  his  great  namesake,  the  church  historian, 
whose  full  name  was  Johann  August  Wilhelm  Nean- 
der ;  who  was  born  a  century  later,  at  a  time  vhen  the 
religious  condition  of  Germany  seemed  to  demand  a 
second  Reformation.  Although  not  strictly  in  the  cate- 
gory of  German  hymnists,  3'et  this  second  Neander 
was,  Luther-like,  a  second  reformer;  and,  as  such,  he 
forms  a  connecting  link  between  the  Germany  of  Lu- 
ther's days  and  of  our  own.  A  brief  allusion  to  him 
will  not,  therefore,  it  is  believed,  be  deemed  an  unpar- 
donable digression. 

This  Neander  was  born  in  the  year  1789,  —  a  year 
memorable  as  introducing  the  fearful  drama  of  the 
French  Revolution,  when  the  moral  atmosphere  was 
infected  with  deadly  poisons,  and  black,  thickening 
clouds  were  spread  over  the  political  and  religious 
horizons.  It  was  then  that  this  remarkable  man  was 
given  to  the  world,  —  a  man  in  whom,  more  than  in 
any  other,  was  that  power  which  Providence  was 
ordaining  should  brush  away  those  fuliginous  clouds, 
purge  the  atmosphere,  and  throw  upon  it  the  reviving 
rays  of  the  great  sun  of  Christian  truth.     When  only 


Il6  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

eight  years  of  age,  he  could  learn  no  more  from  his 
private  teacher.  Just  about  this  time,  it  is  related  that  a 
bookseller  in  Hamburg  was  struck  with  the  frequent 
visits  to  his  shop  of  a  bashful,  ungainly  boy,  who  used 
to  steal  in  and  seize  upon  some  erudite  volume  that  no 
one  else  would  touch,  and  utterly  lose  himself,  for 
hours  together,  in  study. 

About  the  year  1806,  when  he  was  seventeen  years 
old,  he  was  baptized  into  the  Christian  Church  ;  and  at 
this  period  it  was  that  he  adopted  the  name,  by  which 
he  has  since  been  so  well  known  and  loved,  "Nean- 
der"  (literally,  "the  new  man").  He  was  one  of  the 
most  laborious  of  laborious  German  students.  Fifteen 
lectures  a  week,  at  least,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  deliv- 
ering in  the  university ;  and  never  has  Berlin  had  a 
more  exemplary  professor,  and  never  perhaps  was 
one  more  tenderly  beloved.  His  character  is  described 
as  most  symmetrical  and  beautiful :  "  open-hearted, 
and  inoffensive  as  a  child,  he  stood  before  the  world, 
separated  only  from  every  rude  contact  by  the  breath 
of  heavenliness  which  surrounded  him."  His  phy- 
sique does  not  seem  to  have  been  graceful :  on  the 
contrary,  his  form  was  thin  and  bent,  and  his  com- 
plexion dark  and  sallow,  indicative  of  intense  study 
and  reflection.  He  was,  however,  great,  noble,  and 
triumphant  as  the  champion  of  Christian  verity,  in  a 
day  when  its  adversaries  made  their  strong  attack 
under  the  name  of  their  new  leader,  Strauss.  Nean- 
der  worked  earnestly  to  the  last ;  and,  when  that  day 
opposed  him,  he  calmly  said,  to  the  sorrowing  friends 
who  surrounded  him,  "  I  am  weary  :  I  will  now  go  to 
sleep;"  and,  as  they  conducted  him  to  his  bed,  the 
place  of  his  last  repose,  he  whispered,  with  a  voice  of 


GERMAN-REFORMATION    ERA.  II7 

mellowing  affection,  which  thrilled  through  the  heart 
and  marrow  of  all  present,  "  Good-night,  good-night.'' 
It  was  his  last  "good-night"  on  earth.  He  slumbered 
for  four  hours ;  and  then  gently,  and  almost  impercep- 
tibly, "breathed  himself  into  the  silent  and  cold  sleep 
of  death."  This  good  man  was  honored  in  his  death 
as  in  his  life.  The  day  of  his  funeral  obsequies  was 
observed  as  a  public  holiday  in  Berlin.  A  vast  pro- 
cession followed  the  remains  to  the  grave,  stretching 
the  length  of  full  two  miles.  The  hearse  was  sur- 
rounded by  students  carrying  lighted  candles ;  in 
front  of  the  body,  Neander's  Bible  and  Greek  Testa- 
ment were  carried.  The  carriages  of  the  King  and 
Princess  of  Prussia  followed  in  the  procession  ;  and, 
at  the  grave,  a  solemn  choral  was  sung  by  a  thousand 
voices.  The  benefactions  of  Dr.  Neander  can  be  no 
longer  administered  by  his  own  hand ;  but  his  name 
is  engraved  on  an  establishment  for  the  reception  and 
instruction  of  homeless  little  wanderers,  who  will  long 
be  familiar  with  "  Neander's  Haus." 

The  closing  years  of  the  sixteenth,  and  the  opening 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  were  not  wanting  in  sacred 
lyrics,  but  the  singers  were  of  a  different  order :  they 
were,  for  the  most  part,  professional  writers,  rather 
than  from  among  the  people.  In  the  course  of  a  few 
years,  after  the  peace  of  Passau,  the  Reformed  religion 
had  spread  over  more  than  three-fourths  of  the  coun- 
try, including  all  the  most  populous  centres.  "The 
great  idea,  that  every  man  is  personally  responsible 
for  his  belief  and  his  actions  to  God  Himself,  was 
making  itself  felt  everywhere,  breaking  up  old  organi- 
zations, and  the  orderly  but  rigid  routine  of  mediaeval 
life,  prompting  to  new  enterprises,  inspiring  men  with 


IIO  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

courage  to  bear  imprisonment,  exile,  or  death,  for 
their  faith.  But  it  had  brought  its  dangers  and  diffi- 
culties, too,  not  only  in  the  actual  persecutions  and 
wars,  which,  though  on  a  very  limited  scale,  existed 
throughout  this  period,  until  they  culminated  in  the 
great  struggle  of  the  thirty  years'  war ;  but  still  more 
in  an  excessive  individualism,  which  rendered  com- 
mon action  almost  impossible.  For  the  new  mode 
of  thought  gave  rise  to  mental  conflicts,  and  doubts 
and  scruples  of  conscience,  for  which  there  was  no 
longer  the  easy  resolution  of  an  authoritative  decision 
of  church  or  priest,  and  which  saddened  the  lives  of 
many  whom  we  should  not  now  call  specially  religious 
persons ;  and  it  brought  endless  disputes  on  doctrinal 
questions  among  the  professors  of  the  evangelical  faith 
themselves.  Over  the  temporary  compromise  between 
the  Romanist  and  Protestant  religions,  known  as  "the 
Interim  ; "  over  every  shade  of  more  or  less  Calvinistic 
views  of  the  Atonement  and  the  Sacraments,  —  they 
quarrelled,  not  in  words  only,  but  in  deeds.*  Thus 
divided,  and  broken  up  into  opposing  interests,  the 
States  of  Protestant  German}^  were  rife  with  feuds  and 
intestine  strifes ;  while  the  Jesuits  and  the  House  of 
Hapsburg,  on  the  Romish  side  of  despotism,  formed 
a  united  and  broad  phalanx  against  them.  The  horo- 
scope of  the  future  might  well,  indeed,  be  regarded  as 
ominous  of  disaster  and  trouble ;  and  it  came  in  the 
sanguinary  struggle  which  lasted  a  lifetime. 

*  Cbristian  Singers  of  Germany. 


FOURTH   EVENING. 


GERMAN. -THIRTY  YEARS'  WAR. 


FOURTH    EVENING. 


GERMAN.  —  THIRTY  YEARS'  WAR. 

/^"^REAT  men  have  been  compared  to  fire-pillars, 
^'^  or  beacons,  to  guide  us  in  the  great  onward 
progress  of  the  race.  They  stand  forth  in  colossal 
grandeur,  as  the  revealed  embodiment  of  the  possi- 
bilities of  even  our  fallen  human  nature.  And  such 
representative  men  are  given  to  the  world,  to  do  the 
work  of  the  world's  necessity,  by  the  providence  of 
God,  at  the  precise  and  proper  time.  Columbus, 
Newton,  Guttenberg,  and  Luther  belong  to  this  cate- 
gory. At  the  death  of  Luther,  which  synchronized 
with  that  of  Francis  L,  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  en- 
tered into  a  solemn  league  with  the  Pontiff  Paul  TIL 
for  the  extermination  of  "heretics,"  and  forthwith  took 
up  arms  against  the  Reformed  States  of  Germany  :  the 
resistance  of  the  combined  States  was  such,  however, 
that  a  treaty  of  peace  soon  followed.  It  was  on  the 
accession,  in  1619,  of  Ferdinand  II.,  an  intolerant 
bigot,  that  the  great  contest  of  thirty  3'ears'  duration 
broke  out. 

"So  far  as  the  human  eye  can  see,  the  Reforma- 
tion, except  for  Gustavus  Adolphus,  would  have  been 
crushed  in   Germany,   and   probably  in   all   northern 


122  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Europe  —  with  the  exception  of  England  —  as  well."* 
He  made  his  appearance  at  the  juncture  of  danger, 
when  the  Protestant  princes  and  free  cities  of  Ger- 
many formed  themselves,  for  mutual  defence,  into 
what  was  called  the  "Protestant  Union,"  to  which 
those  on  the  other  side  replied  by  a  "  Catholic  League." 
"  For  a  while  the  hidden  fires  smouldered  beneath  the 
surface,  or^just  darted  out  here  and  there  a  tongue 
of  flame  to  tell  of  their  presence.  Not  till  1618  did 
the  flames  burst  openly  forth,  and  then  in  a  remote 
part  of  Germany,  in  Bohemia ;  but  with  so  much 
inflammable  material  everywhere  prepared,  it  was 
not  long  before  the  conflagration  spread  over  all ;  a 
fire  which  should  not  be  extinguished  for  thirty  years, 
and  which,  in  the  end,  rather  burnt  itself  out,  —  all  the 
fuel  which  could  feed  it  being  consumed,  —  than  it  can 
be  said  to  have  been  extinguished  at  all." 

"This  war  —  the  longest,  the  most  terrible,  which 
modern  Europe  has  seen,  —  in  which  Germany  was 
tortured,  torn  to  pieces,  wrecked,  brayed  as  in  a 
mortar  under  the  iron  mace  of  war,  from  which,  at 
this  day,  as  many  believe,  it  has  only  partially  re- 
covered—  may  be  conveniently  divided  into  three 
periods.  In  the  first  of  these,  extending  from  1618  to 
1630,  the  arms  of  the  Catholic  League  and  the  Em- 
peror were  everywhere  triumphant,  beating  down  the 
feeble  and  half-hearted  opposition  of  the  Protestant 
princes  of  Germany ;  scattering  the  forces  of  some 
military  adventurers,  who,  in  all  ways  unequal  to  the 
task,  would  have  stood  in  the  gap ;  and,  lastly,  com- 
pelling Christian  the  Fourth,  King  of  Denmark,  who 
would  fain  have  meddled  in  the  matter,  to  withdraw 

•  Archbishop  Trench. 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS     WAR.  I23 

again,  with  shame  and  defeat,  to  his  own  land.  And 
now  it  seemed  as  though  the  end  had  come.  All  Ger- 
many lay  prostrate  at  the  feet  of  the  Emperor,  and  of 
Wallenstein,  his  terrible  commander."  *  It  was  then, 
at  this  dire  extremity,  to  which  the  Protestant  cause 
was  reduced  by  the  machinations  and  subtle  artifices 
of  the  Jesuits,  that  the  King  of  Sweden  came  to  its 
rescue.  Responding  to  the  mute  appeal  of  the  suf- 
fering members  of  the  Reformed  faith,  he  descended 
upon  Germany  ;  in  little  more  than  two  short  years, 
turned  the  whole  tide  of  affairs,  until,  on  the  plains  of 
Lutzen,  he  crowned  an  heroic  life  with  an  heroic 
death.  In  this  brief  period  was  the  turning-point  of 
the  bloody  drama,  which  for  thirty  years  was  enacted 
on  the  stage  of  Germany.  The  third  act  of  the 
tragedy  commenced  with  his  death.  "  The  cause  which 
he  came  to  support  staggered  for  a  season  under 
this  blow,  yet  never  entirely  lost  the  superiority  which 
his  victories  had  given  it;  and  when,  sixteen  years 
after  his  death,  in  1648,  the  end  at  length  arrived, 
then,  by  the  treat}^  of  Westphalia,  the  entirely  equal 
rights  of  the  two  Confessions  were  recognized ;  and 
this  has  remained  the  public  law  of  Germany  from 
that  day  to  the  present,  nor  has  it  at  any  time  since 
been  seriously  disturbed."  f  Gustavus,  who  had 
watched  the  hideous  strife  for  twelve  years,  not  with- 
out a  presentiment  that  sooner  or  later  he  would  be 
himself  drawn  into  its  vortex,  might  yet  very  well 
pause  before  he  committed  himself  irrevocably  to  it. 

Long  delayed  by  contrary  winds,  Gustavus  at  length 
reached  the  shores  north  of  the  Oder,  on  midsummer- 
day,  1630,  —  the  centenary  of  the  Augsburg  Confes- 

*  Trench.  t  Ibid. 


124  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

sion.  His  first  act  was  to  lift  up  an  earnest  prayer  for 
the  Divine  aid;  and  then  he  went  to  work.  His  army 
w^as  well  disciplined  and  hardy,  but  ridiculously  small 
compared  with  that  which  was  to  oppose  him  ;  yet  it 
took  them  full  eighteen  years  to  get  rid  of  him  or 
them.  He  was  a  great  general,  and  knew  how  to 
make  a  small  army  do  the  work  of  a  large  one. 

Unlike  his  antagonist  in  the  field,  Wallenstein,  he 
was  not  chary  of  himself;  but,  at  a  siege,  he  would, 
in  the  same  day,  be  at  once  generalissimo,  chief  en- 
gineer, pioneer,  and  leader  of  a  storming-party  to 
dislodge  the  foe.  At  length  came  the  conflict  on  the 
field  of  Lutzen,  which  proved  fatal  to  the  Christian 
hero.  A  severe  wound,  which  the  king  had  re::eived 
in  his  Polish  campaigns,  made  the  wearing  of  his 
armor  very  painful  to  him.  When  it  was  brought  to 
him  this  morning,  he  declined  to  put  it  on,  saying, 
"  God  is  my  armor,"  and  went  into  the  battle  without 
it.  Thus  unprotected,  he  was  surprised  by  some  Im- 
perial cuirassiers,  who  were  concealed  by  the  heavy 
mist  that  prevailed  at  the  time,  and  shot. 

When  Gustavus  Adolphus  was  found  by  his  enemies 
wounded  on  the  field  of  batde,  amid  a  heap  of  dying 
men,  it  was  with  a  pride  only  to  be  equalled  in  the 
hour  of  victory,  that  he  cried  out,  "  I  am  the  King  of 
Sweden,  and  seal  with  my  blood  the  liberty  and  re- 
ligion of  the  whole  German  nation  !  " 

What  imperishable  interest  lingers  around  those 
heroic  war-hymns  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  and  Martin 
Luther;  who  can  read  them,  and  not  kindle  with 
deepest  sympathy  in  the  spirit-stirring  scenes? 

The  celebrated  battle-song  of  Gustavus  Adolphus 
was  so  styled,  because  it  was  frequently  sung  by  the 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS'   WAR.  1 25 

great  and  good  Swedish  monarch  and  his  army,  on 
the  field  of  action ;  and,  for  the  hist  time,  on  the  eve 
of  the  battle  of  Lutzen.  Its  authorship  has  long  been 
attributed  to  Altenburg,  a  pastor  in  Thuringia ;  recent 
researches,  however,  seem  to  indicate  that  he  only 
composed  the  choral,  and  that  the  hymn  itself  v^as 
written  down  roughly  by  Gustavus  Adolphuj,  after 
his  victory  at  Leipzig,  and  reduced  to  regular  verse 
by  his  chaplain,  Dr.  Fabricius,  for  the  use  of  the 
army;  the  translation  is  by  C.  Winkworth :  — 

Fear  not,  O  little  flock  !  the  foe  who  madly  seeks  your  overthrow ; 

Dread  not  his  rage  and  power  ! 
What  though  your  courage  sometimes  faints,  his  seeming  trium^jh 
o'er  God's  saints 
Lasts  but  a  little  hour. 
Be  of  good  cheer :  your  cause  belongs  to  Him  who  can  avenge 
your  wrongs, 
Leave  it  to  Him,  our  Lord  ; 
Though  hidden  yet  from  all  our  eyes,  He  sees  the  Gideon  who  shall 
rise 
To  save  us  and  His  Word. 
As  true  as  God's  own  Word  is  true,  nor  earth  nor  hell  with  all  their 
crew 
Against  us  shall  prevail. 
A  jest  and  by-word  are  they  grown :  our  God  is  with  us,  we  His 
own,  — 
Our  victory  cannot  fail ! 
Amen,  Lord  Jesus,  grant  our  prayer  :  Great  Captain,  now  thine  arm 
make  bare,  — 
Fight  for  us  once  again  ; 
So  shall  Thy  saints  and  martyrs  raise  a  mighty  chorus  to  Thy 
praise, 
World  without  end,  —  Amen. 

The  story  of  the  last  battle  of  the  great  and  good 
Gustavus  is  as  follows  :  "  The  armies  of  the  king  and 
Wallenstein  were  drawn  up  till  the  morning  mist  dis- 


T26  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

persed,  to  commence  the  attack,  when  Gustavus  com- 
manded Luther's  '  Eine  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott,'  to 
be  sung;  and  then  that  hymn  of  his  own,  accom- 
panied by  the  drums  and  trumpets  of  the  whole  army. 
Immediately  afterwards,  the  mist  broke,  and  the  sun- 
shine burst  upon  the  two  armies.  For  a  moment, 
Gustavus  Adolphus  knelt  beside  his  horse,  in  face  of 
his  soldiers,  and  repeated  his  usual  battle-prayer : 
'  O  Lord  Jesus  Christ !  bless  our  armies  and  this 
day's  battle,  for  the  glory  of  Thy  holy  name  ! '  Then 
passing  along  the  lines,  with  a  few  brief  words  of 
encouragement,  he  gave  the  battle-cr}-,  'God  with 
us ! '  the  same  with  which  he  had  conquered  at 
Leipzig.  Thus  began  the  day  which  laid  him  low 
amidst  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  with  those  three 
sentences  on  his  dying  lips,  noble  and  Cliristian  as 
any  that  ever  fell  from  the  lips  of  dying  man  since  the 
days  of  the  first  martyr,  '  I  seal  with  my  blood  the 
liberty  and  religion  of  the  German  nation.'"  This 
incident  adds  imperishable  interest  to  the  hymn. 

What  struggles  of  soul  have  some  of  these  hymns 
not  witnessed,  in  what  strange  and  stirring  scenes 
have  they  not  mingled  !  How  has  their  melody  and 
sweet  inspiration  brought  solace  to  sorrow,  and  lent 
ecstasy  to  spiritual  joy  !  Like  the  words  of  the  Holy 
Book,  they  linger  in  the  memory;  and,  in  hours  of 
despondency  and  gloom,  how  often  have  they  lifted  \is 
up  from  the  earthliness  of  our  being,  and  also  im- 
parted even  to  the  sick  and  dying  wondrous  consola- 
tion ! 

This  war  gave  birth  to  great  crimes  as  well  as 
great  virtues ;  but  it  banished  from  Germany  the  arts 
of   industry,    and    polite    studies.      Famine    and  pes- 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS     WAR.  12'] 

tilence  followed  the  track  of  war,  destroying  even 
more  than  fire  and  sword.  All  reverence  for  laws, 
human  or  divine,  was  forgotten ;  rapine  and  violence 
reigned  on  every  side.  Schiller  informs  us  that  "the 
soldier  was  ruler :  the  commander  of  an  army  was  a 
far  more  important  personage  in  the  land  than  the 
rightful  lord." 

All  Germany  was  full  of  these  petty  tyrants,  and  the 
country  suffered  equally  from  its  enemies  and  its  de- 
fenders. It  is  computed,  that,  during  this  fatal  thirty 
years,  Germany  lost  two-thirds  of  her  population.  In 
Saxony  alone,  nine  hundred  thousand  human  beings 
perished.  Augsburg,  from  a  population  of  eighty 
thousand  souls,  found  herself  reduced  to  eighteen 
thousand ;  and  Munich,  Nuremberg,  and  almost  every 
city  of  importance  shared  the  same  fate.  Passing 
such  an  ordeal,  —  so  fearful  and  almost  exterminating 
a  war,  —  it  is  remarkable  that  it  lived  through  it ;  and 
that,  instead  of  utterly  perishing,  it  should  even  evince 
signs  of  considerable  vitality,  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
crisis  which  desolated  the  land. 

It  was  the  seed-time  of  an  illustrious  band  of  Chris- 
tian bards, — Paul  Fleming,  Paul  Gerhardt,  Luther, 
Gellert,  Klopstock,  and  numerous  others,  many  of 
whom  sang  and  fought  at  the  same  time. 

Rist,  a  clergyman  in  North  Germany,  who  suf- 
fered much  in  his  youth  from  mental  conflicts,  and 
in  after  years  from  rapine,  pestilence,  and  all  the 
horrors  of  war,  used  to  say,  "The  dear  Cross  hath 
pressed  many  songs  out  of  me  ; "  and  this  seems  to 
have  been  equally  true  of  many  of  his  contemporaries. 
It  certainly  was  true  of  Johann  Heermann,  the  author 
of  some  of  the   most  touching   hymns   for  "Passion 


128  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

week,"  who  wrote  his  sweet  songs  amidst  the  perils  of 
war,  during  which  he  more  than  once  escaped  with  his 
life  as  by  a  miracle  ;  so,  too,  the  hymns  of  Simon  Dach 
speak  of  the  sufferings  of  the  Christian,  and  his  long- 
ing to  escape  from  the  strife  of  earth  to  the  peace  of 
heaven.  Here  are  a  few  stanzas  of  one  of  Rist's 
hymns.     The  translation  is  by  Catherine  Winkworth. 

O  living  Bread  from  heaven, 

How  richly  hast  Thou  fed  Thy  guests  ! 
The  gifts  Thou  now  hast  given 

Have  filled  my  heart  with  joy  and  rest. 
O  wondrous  food  of  blessing  !  O  cup  that  heals  our  woes  ! 
My  heart,  this  gift  possessing,  in  thankful  song  o'erflows. 
For  while  the  life  and  strength  in  me 

Were  quickened  by  this  food, 
My  soul  hath  gazed  awhile  on  Thee, 
O  highest,  only  Good  ! 
And  Thou  hast  freely  given,  what  earth  could  never  buy,  -  - 
The  Bread  of  life  from  heaven,  —  that  now  I  shall  not  die ! 

O  Love  incomprehensible  ! 
What  wrought  in  Thee,  my  Saviour,  thus 

That  Thou  shouldst  have  descended 
From  highest  heaven  to  dwell  with  us  ! 
Creator  !  that  hath  brought  Thee  to  succor  such  as  I, 
Who  else  had  vainly  sought  Thee  !    Then  grant  me  now  to  di* 
To  sin,  and  live  alone  to  Thee,  that,  when  this  life  is  o'er. 
Thy  face,  O  Saviour  !  I  may  see  in  heaven  for  evermore. 

But  I,  in  sinful  blindness,  am  erring  every  hour. 
Yet  boundless  is  Thy  kindness  and  righteous  is  Thy  power : 
And  yet  Thou  camest,  dost  not  spurn  a  sinner,  Lord,  like  me  ! 
Ah,  how  can  I  Thy  love  return  ?  what  gift  have  I  for  Thee  ? 

Though  a  great  number  of  Rist's  hymns  were  adopt- 
ed by  many  churches,  even  during  his  lifetime,  he 
would  never  suffer  them  to  be  sung  in  his  own  church  ; 
with  the  exception  of  a  Christmas  hymn,  which,  on 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS     WAR.  129 

one  occasion,  he  allowed  the  children  of  the  school  to 
practise,  and  to  begin  to  sing  on  that  festival,  "  Wenn 
das  Volk  aus  der  Kirche  zu  gehen  beginnt,"  as  the 
people  were  beginning  to  go  out  of  church. 

Johann  Heermann  (1585-1647)  was  a  native  of 
Silesia.  Being  much  tried  during  the  horrors  of  war, 
his  mind  seems  to  have  become  the  more  spiritual- 
ly enlightened  through  his  bodily  sufferings,  in  the 
midst  of  which  he  wrote  the  greater  number  of  his 
hymns.  The  following  beautiful  lines  are  a  trans- 
lation from  one  of  his  hymns,  by  Frances  Elizabeth 
Cox:  — 

Such  wondrous  love  would  baffle  my  endeavor 
To  find  its  equal,  should  I  strive  for  ever : 
How  should  my  works,  could  I  in  all  obey  Thee, 
Ever  repay  Thee  ! 

Yet  this  shall  please  Thee  :  if  devoutly  trying 
To  keep  Thy  laws,  mine  own  wrong  will  denying, 
I  watch  my  heart,  lest  sin  again  ensnare  it. 
And  from  Thee  tear  it. 

But  since  I  have  not  strength  to  flee  temptation, 
To  crucify  each  sinful  inclination, 
Oh  !  let  Thy  Spirit,  grace,  and  strength  provide  me, 
And  gently  guide  me. 

Then  shall  I  see  Thy  grace,  and  duly  prize  it. 
For  Thee  renounce  the  world,  for  Thee  despise  it : 
Then,  of  my  life.  Thy  laws  shall  be  the  measure  : 
Thy  will,  my  pleasure  ! 

And  when,  O  Christ !  before  Thy  throne  so  glorious, 
Upon  my  head  is  placed  the  crown  victorious, 
Thy  praise  I  will,  while  heaven's  full  chime  is  ringing, 
Be  ever  singing. 

Wulffer  wrote,  in  1648,  some  impressive  stanzas  on 
Eternity,  which  were  the  favorite  study  of  Niebuhr. 


130  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

The  greater  part  of  the  poem  is  believed  to  be  of 
ancient  origin. 

Eternity  !  eternity  !  how  long  art  thou,  eternity ! 
And  yet  to  thee  time  hastes  away, 
Like  as  the  war-horse  to  the  fray, 
Or  swift  as  couriers  homeward  go, 
Or  ship  to  port,  or  shaft  from  bow. 
Ponder,  O  man,  eternity ! 

Eternity  !  eternity  !  how  long  art  thou,  eternity  ! 
For  even  as  in  a  perfect  sphere 
End  nor  beginning  can  appear. 
Even  so,  eternity,  in  thee. 
Entrance  nor  exit  can  there  be. 
Ponder,  O  man,  eternity  ! 

Eternity  !  eternity  !  how  long  art  thou,  eternity ! 
A  circle  infinite  art  thou, 
Thy  centre  an  eternal  Now : 
Never  we  name  thy  outward  bound, 
For  never  end  therein  is  found. 
Ponder,  O  man,  eternity  ! 

Eternity  !  eternity  !  how  long  art  thou,  eternity! 
As  long  as  God  is  God,  so  long 
Endure  the  pains  of  hell  and  wrong. 
So  long  the  joys  of  heaven  remain  : 
O  lasting  joy  !  O  lasting  pain  ! 
Ponder,  O  man,  eternity  ! 

The  hymn  of  Gottfried  Arnold  (1667-1704),  of 
which  we  give  two  stanzas,  was  the  favorite  of  Schel 
ling:  — 

How  blest  to  all  Thy  servants.  Lord,  the  road 

By  which  Thou  lead'st  them  on,  yet  oft  how  strange  ! 
But  Thou  in  all  dost  seek  our  highest  good  ; 

For  truth  were  true  no  longer,  couldst  Thou  change. 
Though  crooked  seem  the  paths,  yet  are  they  straight, 

By  whicli  Thou  drawest  Tliy  children  up  to  Thee, 

And  passing  wonders  by  the  way  they  see. 
And  learn,  at  last,  to  own  Thee  wise  and  great ! 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS     WAR.  I3I 

Now  seems  to  us  o'er  harsh  and  strict  Thy  school, 

Now  dost  Thou  greet  us  mild  and  tenderly  ; 
Now,  when  our  wilder  passions  break  Thy  rule, 

Thy  judgments  fright  us  back  again  to  Thee. 
With  downcast  eyes  we  seek  Thy  face  again  ; 

Thou  kissest  us,  we  promise  fair  amends  ; 

Once  more  Thy  Spirit  rest  and  pardon  sends. 
And  curbs  our  passions  with  a  stronger  rein. 

Another  of  the  German  singers,  Baron  von  Canitz, 
who  lived  from  1654  till  1699,  wrote  some  fine  melo- 
dies.    We  subjoin  his  matin  song  :  — 

Come,  my  soul,  awake  :  'tis  morning  ;  day  is  dawning 

O'er  the  earth  :  arise,  and  pray  ! 
Come  to  Him  who  made  this  splendor :  thou  must  render 

All  thy  feeble  powers  can  pay. 
From  the  stars,  now  learn  thy  duty  ;  see  their  beauty 

Paling  in  the  golden  air  : 
So  God's  light  thy  mists  should  banish,  —  thus  should  vanish 

What  to  darkened  sense  seemed  fair. 

From  God's  glances  shrink  thou  never,  —  meet  them  ever  ; 

Who  submits  him  to  His  grace. 
Finds  that  earth  no  sunsliine  knoweth,  such  as  gloweth 

O'er  his  pathway  all  his  days.  , 

Round  the  gifts  He  on  thee  showers,  fiery  towers 

Will  He  set :  be  not  afraid  ; 
Thou  shalt  dwell  'mid  angel-legions,  in  the  regions 

Satan's  self  dares  not  invade. 

Very  beautiful  is  the  hymn  on  the  "  Name  of 
Jesus"  b}^  Heermann  :  — 

Ah,  Jesus,  Lord  !  whose  faithfulness  in  heaven  or  in  earth, 
No  human  lips  can  celebrate  enough  to  tell  Thy  worth  ! 
I  render  thanks  to  Thee,  that  Thou  in  lowly  guise  wast  born, 
That  Thou  didst  stoop  to  pity  me,  a  helpless  one  forlorn. 

Whate'er  the  anguish  of  my  breast,  its  fluttering  doth  cease, 
Whene'er  Thy  name  of  comfort  fills  my  spirit  with  Thy  peace! 
No  consolation  is  so  sweet  as  that  Thy  name  doth  give,  — 
Thy  yes7cs^  name !  O  David's  Son,  and  Lord  by  whom  I  live  ! 


132  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Thy  name  of  Jesus  is  a  store  of  all  that  heart  can  need, 
Enfolding  every  precious  thing,  —  fruit,  blossom,  leaf,  and  seed  ! 
He  spends  his  time  most  worthily,  who  seeks  that  Name  to  know: 
Its  ocean-fulness  riseth  still  as  ages  onward  flow ! 

Apart  from  Jesus'  precious  name,  I've  nothing  to  desire  ; 
Of  all  beside,  e'en  were  it  mine,  my  heart  would  only  tire. 
Apart  from  Him,  there's  naught  of  worth,  created  things  are  vain : 
He  is  my  glory  and  my  wealth,  my  honor  and  my  gain  ! 

Thy  precious  name,  Lo7-d  Jesus  Christ  I  is  better  far  to  me, 
Than  all  the  wealth  that  can  be  found  in  earth,  or  air,  or  sea ! 
Thou  art  the  paradise,  set  forth  by  God's  own  hand  of  love ; 
Thy  presence  is  itself  the  heaven,  where  I  shall  dwell  above. 

All  that  I  ever  undertake,  I  would  begin  in  Thee,  — 

Thee  first,  Thee  last.  Thee  midst,  O  Christ !  and  evermore  to  be ! 

We  cite  also  the  following  hymn  of  his,  from  the 
"  Lyra  Germanica  :  "  — 

But,  oh,  the  depth  of  love  beyond  comparing. 
That  brought  Thee  down  fi-om  heaven,  our  burden  bearing ! 
I  taste  all  peace  and  joy  that  life  can  offer, 
Whilst  Thou  must  suffer  ! 

Eternal  King,  in  power  and  love  excelling  ! 
Fain  would  my  heart  and  mouth  Thy  praise  be  telling; 
But  how  can  man's  weak  powers  at  all  come  nigh  Thee, 
How  magnify  Thee  ? 

Such  wondrous  love  would  baffle  my  endeavor, 
To  find  its  equal,  should  I  strive  for  ever ; 
How  should  my  works,  could  I  in  all  obey  Thee, 
Ever  repay  Thee  ? 

Yet  this  shall  please  Thee,  if  devoutly  trying 
To  keep  Thy  laws,  my  own  wrong  will  denying, 
I  watch  my  heart,  lest  sin  again  ensnare  it. 
And  from  Thee  tear  it. 

John  Wesley's  translation  of  the  grand  "  Hymn  on 
the  Deity,"  by  Breithaupt,  who  lived  in  1653,  has  these 
striking  stanzas  :  — 


GERMAN.  THIRTY    YEARS     WAR.  I33 

Thou  true  and  only  God,  lead'st  forth 

The  immortal  armies  of  the  sky ; 
Thou  laugh'st  to  scorn  the  gods  of  earth  ; 

Thou  thunderest,  and  amazed  they  fly  ! 
With  downcast  eye,  the  angelic  choir 

Appear  before  Thy  awful  face  ; 
Trembling,  they  strike  the  golden  lyre, 

And  through  heaven's  vault  resound  Thy  praise. 

How  sweet  the  joys,  the  crown  how  bright, 

Of  those  who  to  Thy  love  aspire  ! 
All  creatures  praise  the  Eternal  Name  ! 

Ye  hosts  that  to  His  court  belong, 
Cherubic  choirs,  seraphic  flames, 

Awake  the  everlasting  song  ! 
Thrice  holy  !     Thine  the  kingdom  is, 

The  power  omnipotent  is  Thine  ; 
And  when  created  nature  dies. 

Thy  never-ceasing  glories  shine  ! 

Fleming,  who  was  born  1609,  studied  medicine  at 
Leipzig  till  1634,  when  he  repaired  to  try  his  fortune 
in  the  little  Duchy  of  Schleswig-Holstein.  He  soon 
afterwards  obtained  an  appointment  on  the  embassy 
to  the  Imperial  Court  of  Russia.  He  was  deeply  im- 
pressed with  rehgious  feeling,  as  is  evident  from  the 
following  hymn,  written  just  at  the  moment  of  his 
departure  :  — 

Only  let  nothing  grieve  thee,  poor  heart,  be  still ! 
Howe'er  the  Lord  bereave  thee,  bow  down,  my  will ! 

Why  all  this  useless  sorrow 

For  the  morrow  ? 

Will  not  He 

Who  cares  for  all, 

Whate'er  befall, 

Care,  too,  for  thee  ? 
He  rules  thy  fate  :  calmly  await  the  Lord's  behest ; 
Who  all  things  sees,  what  He  decrees  must  be  the  best ! 


134  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

He  returned  from  Moscow  in  1635,  and  went  sub- 
sequently to  the  Court  of  Persia.  He  died  at  Hamburg 
in  1640.  His  hymn,  above  cited,  is  still  sung  in  some 
of  the  churches  of  Germany. 

These  fine  lines  are  from  the  German  of  Frederick 
Arndt :  — 

Amid  life's  wild  commotion,  where  nought  the  heart  can  cheer, 
Who  points  beyond  its  ocean  to  heaven's  brighter  sphere  ? 
Our  feeble  footsteps  guiding,  when  from  the  path  we  stray, 
Who  leads  to  bliss  abiding  ?     Christ  is  our  only  Way ! 

When  doubts  and  fears  distress  us,  and  all  around  is  gloom, 
And  shame  and  fear  oppress  us,  who  can  our  souls  illume  ? 
Heaven's  rays  are  round  us  gleaming,  and  making  all  things  bright. 
The  Sun  of  Trui/i  is  beaming  in  glory  on  our  sight. 

Who  fills  our  hearts  with  gladness  that  none  can  take  away  f 
Who  shows  us,  'midst  our  sadness,  the  distant  realms  of  day  ? 
'Tis  Christ !  our  aid  unfailing,  the  Truth,  the  Life,  the  Way. 

Weiszel,  one  of  the  German  hymnologists  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  thus  finely  introduces  a  para- 
phrastic psalm  :  — 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  mighty  gates  ! 
Behold  the  King  of  Glory  waits  ; 
The  King  of  kings  is  drawing  near, 
The  Saviour  of  the  world  is  here  : 
Life  and  salvation  doth  He  bring. 
Wherefore  rejoice,  and  gladly  sing 

Praise,  O  my  God,  to  Thee  ! 

Creator,  wise  is  Thy  decree  ! 

Fling  wide  the  portals  of  your  heart. 
Make  it  a  temple  set  apart 
From  eartlily  use  for  Heaven's  employ, 
Adorned  with  prayer  and  love  and  joy; 
So  shall  your  Sovereign  enter  in, 
And  new  and  nobler  life  begin. 
Praise,  O  my  God  !  be  Thine, 
For  word,  and  deed,  and  grace  divine. 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS*   WAR.  I35 

Here  is  one  of  Lowenstern's  brave  battle-hymns, 
written  amidst  the  tumult  and  din  of  those  terrible 
"  thirty  years  : "  — 

Christ,  Thou  champion  of  the  band  who  own 
Thy  cross,  oh,  make  Thy  succor  quickly  known ! 
The  schemes  of  those  who  long  our  blood  have  sought 
Bring  Thou  to  nought. 

Do  Thou  Thyself  for  us  Thy  children  fight, 
Withstand  the  devil,  quell  his  rage  and  might : 
Whate'er  assails  Thy  members  left  below, 
Do  Thou  o'erthrow. 

And  give  us  peace  :  peace  in  the  church  and  school, 
Peace  to  the  powers  who  o'er  our  country  rule, 
Peace  to  the  conscience,  peace  within  the  heart. 
Do  Thou  impart. 

So  shall  Thy  goodness  here  be  still  adored, 
Thou  guardian  of  Thy  little  flock,  dear  Lord ; 
And  heaven  and  earth,  through  all  eternity. 
Shall  worship  Thee  ! 

Niebuhr,  the  church  historian,  was  fond  of  this 
hymn  of  Lowenstern  ;  and  might  be  heard  now  and 
then  refreshing  his  own  soul,  amidst  its  intense  labors 
and  researches,  by  murmuring  the  metrical  prayer,  — 

"  And  give  us  peace  :  peace  in  the  church  and  school, 
Peace  to  the  powers  who  o'er  our  country  rule. 
Peace  to  the  conscience,  peace  within  the  heart, 
Do  Thou  impart !  " 

Gottfried  Arnold,  who  was  born  in  1666,  in  Saxony, 
of  poor  parents,  published,  when  thirty  years  old,  a 
collection  of  poems  and  hymns.  In  1707,  he  was  ap- 
pointed pastor  of  Perleberg,  in  Brandenburg;  and 
here  he  spent  the  last  seven  years  of  his  life,  in  un- 
wearied activity,  but  in  peace;  for  his  congregation 


136  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

were  of  his  own  way  of  thinking,  and  he  was  pro- 
tected by  the  king.  In  1713,  his  health  began  to  fail; 
and,  at  Easter,  17 14,  while  he  was  celebrating  the 
Holy  Communion,  a  Prussian  recruiting-party  burst 
into  the  church,  and  dragged  away  a  number  of 
young  men  from  the  very  steps  of  the  altar.  This 
outrage,  and  his  unavailing  efforts  to  save  the  mem- 
bers of  his  flock,  so  affected  him,  that  he  took  to 
his  bed  two  days  afterwards,  and  soon  after  died. 
Perhaps  the  best  of  Arnold's  hymns  is  his  deeply 
thoughtful  one,  "  How  blest  to  all  Thy  followers,  Lord, 
the  road  !  "  But  many  others  are  very  fine  :  here  are 
some  stanzas,  entitled  "The  Kingdom  of  God  :"  — 

Anoint  us  with  Thy  blessed  love,  O  Wisdom  !  through  and  through, 
Till  Thy  sweet  impulses  remove  all  dread  and  fear  undue, 
And  we  behold  ourselves  in  Thee  a  purified  humanity, 

And  live  Thy  risen  life. 
O  Perfect  Manhood !  once  again  descend  Thou  in  our  race, 
Be  all  its  lower  nature  slain,  transform  us  of  Thy  grace, 
Till,  pure  and  holy  as  Thou  art,  Thine  image  shine  from  every  heart, 

And  Thou  within  us  live. 

Ulrich,   Duke  of  Brunswick,   wrote  the   following 
touching  lines,  in  1667:  — 

Leave  all  to  God,  forsaken  one,  and  still  thy  fears, 
For  the  Highest  knows  thy  fears  ;  thou  shalt  not  wait  His  help  in 
vain. 

Leave  all  to  God. 
Be  still,  and  trust !  for  His  strokes  are  strokes  of  love 

Thou  must  for  thy  profit  bear ; 
He  thy  filial  fear  would  move,  trust  thy  Father's  loving  care, 

Be  still  and  trust ! 
Know,  God  is  near !     Though  thou  think  Him  far  away, 
Though  His  mercy  long  have  slept,  He  will  come,  and  not  delay, 
When  His  child  enough  hath  wept,  for  God  is  near  ! 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  I37 

The  following  stanzas  form  part  of  a  translation 
from  the  German  of  De  Wette,  by  Whittier :  — 

World  Redeemer !  Lord  of  Glory !  as  of  old  to  zealous  Paul, 
Thou  didst  come  in  sudden  splendor,  and  from  out  the  clouds  didst 

call; 
As  to  Mary  in  the  garden,  did  Thy  risen  form  appear,  — 
Come,  arrayed  in  heavenly  beauty :  come,  and  speak,  and  I  will 

hear ! 

In  my  heart  the  voice  made  answer,  "Ask  thou  not  a  sign  from 

Heaven  ; 
In  the  Gospel  of  thy  Saviour,  Life  as  well  as  Light  is  given. 
Ever  looking  unto  Jesus,  all  His  glory  thou  shalt  see  : 
From  thy  heart  the  veil  be  taken,  and  the  Word  made  clear  to  thee. 

Love  the  Lord,  and  thou  shalt  see  Him  ;  do  His  will,  and  thou  shalt 

know 
How  the  spirit  lights  the  letter,  —  how  a  little  child  may  go. 
Where  the  wise  and  prudent  stumble  ;  how  a  heavenly  glory  shines. 
In  His  acts  of  love  and  mercy,  from  the  Gospel's  simplest  lines  !  " 

The  following  lines,   entitled  "Going  Home,"  are 
from  the  German  of  Lange  (1650-1727)  :  — 

Our  beloved  have  departed. 
While  we  tarry,  broken-hearted, 

In  the  dreary,  empty  house  ; 
They  have  ended  life's  brief  story. 
They  have  reached  the  home  of  glory, 

Over  death  victorious  ! 

Whilst  with  bitter  tears  we're  mourning, 
Thought  to  buried  loves  returning. 

Time  is  hasting  us  along  ; 
Downward  to  the  grave's  dark  dwelling, 
Upward  to  the  fountain  welling 

With  eternal  life  and  song ! 

On  we  haste,  to  home  invited, 
There  with  friends  to  be  united 


13^      EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

In  a  surer  bond  than  here  ; 
Meeting  soon,  and  met  for  ever  ! 
Glorious  hope  !  forsake  us  never,  — 

Scatter  every  doubt  and  fear  ! 

Here  are  his  lines  on  the  future  estate  of  being :  — 

What  no  human  eye  hath  seen,  v/hat  no  mortal  ear  hath  heard, 
What  on  thought  hath  never  been,  in  its  noblest  flights,  conferred, — 

This  hath  God  prepared  in  store, 

For  His  people  evermore  ! 

When  the  shaded  pilgrim-land  fades  before  the  closing  eye, 
Then,  revealed  on  either  hand,  heaven's  own  scenery  shall  lie  ; 

Then  the  veil  of  flesh  shall  fall. 

Now  concealing,  darkening  all. 

When  this  aching  heart  shall  rest,  all  its  busy  pulses  o'er, 
From  her  mortal  robes  undrest,  shall  my  spirit  upward  soar : 

Then  shall  unimagined  joy 

All  my  thoughts  and  powers  employ. 

Johann  Frank,  who  died  at  Guben,  in  Prussia,  in 
1677,  was  the  author  of  this, — considered,  in  the 
original,  one  of  the  richest  German  communion 
hymns :  — 

Deck  thyself,  my  soul,  with  gladness ; 

Leave  the  gloomy  haunts  of  sadness, 

Come  into  the  daylight's  splendor ; 

There,  with  joy,  thy  praises  render 

Unto  Him  whose  boundless  grace 

Grants  thee,  at  His  feet,  a  place  ; 

He  whom  all  the  heavens  obey 

Deigns  to  dwell  in  thee  to-day  ! 

Sun,  who  all  my  life  dost  brighten, 
Light,  who  dost  my  soul  enlighten, 
Joy,  the  sweetest,  man  e'er  knoweth, 
Fount,  whence  all  my  being  floweth  ! 
Here  I  fall  before  Thy  feet : 
Grant  me  worthily  to  eat 
Of  this  blessed  heavenly  food, 
To  Thy  praise,  and  to  my  good. 


GERMAN.  THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  I39 

These  brief  specimens  of  German  hymnology  afford 
but  a  very  imperfect  conception  of  the  rich  resources 
which  exist;  but  these  will  serve,  at  least,  to  illustrate 
the  status  of  Christian  piety  during  an  epoch  of  al- 
most unparalleled  tribulation.  These  sacred  lyrics 
have  comforted  and  solaced  many  an  afflicted  Chris- 
tian, and  were  to  them,  as  were  also  those  of  the 
mediceval  times,  "songs  in  the  night;"  and,  as  such, 
they  speak  to  us  with  a  peculiar  emphasis  and  force. 
Listen  to  this  sweet  song  to  the  Saviour,  by  Linde- 
mann,  who  lived  during  these  troublous  times  of  per- 
secution for  the  truth  :  — 

Tn  Thee  is  gladness  amid  all  sadness, 

Jesus,  Thou  sunshine  of  my  heart ! 
By  Thee  are  given  the  gifts  of  heaven, 

Thou  the  true  Redeemer  art ! 
Our  souls  Thou  wakest,  our  bonds  Thou  breakest ; 
Who  trusts  Thee  surely,  hath  built  securely,  — 

He  stands  for  ever  :  Hallelujah  ! 

If  He  is  ours,  we  fear  no  powers 

Of  earth  or  Satan,  sin  or  death  ! 
He  sees  and  blesses  in  worst  distresses, 

He  can  change  them  with  a  breath  ! 
Wherefore  the  story  tell  of  His  glory, 
With  heart  and  voices  ;  all  heaven  rejoices 

In  Him  for  ever  :  Hallelujah  ! 

Sclimolke  (1731)  wrote  a  beautiful  hymn,  "  Him- 
melan  geht  unsre  Bahn,"  of  which  these  stanzas  form 
the  close  :  — 

Heavenwards  !  faith  discerns  the  prize 

That  is  waiting  us  afar  ; 
And  my  heart  would  swiftly  rise. 

High  o'er  sun  and  moon  and  star, 
To  that  Light  behind  the  veil, 
Where  all  earthly  splendors  pale. 


140  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Heavenward,  Death  shall  lead,  at  last, 

To  the  home  where  I  would  be  ; 
All  my  sorrows  overpast, 

I  shall  triumph  there  with  Thee  ; 
Jesus,  who  hast  gone  before. 
That  we,  too,  might  heavenward  soar  ! 

The  sacred  poetry  of  Germany,  in  the  hrst  half  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  was,  to  some  extent,  identified 
with  the  pietism  of  that  period,  —  a  transition  from  the 
state  of  formaHsm  that  preceded  it.  Schmolke,  who 
then  Hved,  was  one  who  expressed  in  toucliing  verse 
much  of  his  personal  sufferings  and  sorrows,  his  con- 
flicts and  consolations.  His  bereavements  in  early 
domestic  life,  and  in  his  old  age  his  blindness,  are  evi- 
dences that  his  earthly  life  was  sufficiently  checkered 
with  trial ;  yet  he  is  said  to  have  solaced  himself,  if 
not  others,  with  his  meditative  muse. 

"There  is  one  fact  most  noteworthy,  as  a  sign  of  the 
temper  in  which  this  great  tribulation  was  met  by 
those  who  had  to  drink  of  its  cup  of  pain  deeper, 
perhaps,  than  an}^  other,  —  that  very  many,  among 
the  most  glorious  compositions  in  the  hymn-book  of 
Protestant  Germany,  date  from  the  period  of  the 
thirty  years'  war.  Many  men,  as  a  poet  of  our  own 
time  has  said, — 

'  Are  cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong, 
And  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song.' 

So  was  it  here ;  and  as  this  was  a  time  full  of  suffer- 
ing, and  wrath,  and  wrong,  so  was  it  also  a  time  when 
sacred  song,  which,  since  Luther,  had  shown  compar- 
atively little  vitality,  burst  forth  in  a  new  luxuriance ; 
and,  most  noticeable  of  all,  is  rich,  not  so  much,  as 
one  might  have  expected,  in  threnes  and  lamentations, 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  I4I 

Misere7'es,  and  cries  de  froftindis  (though  these  also 
are  not  wanting),  as  in  71?  Dciuns  and  Magnificats ^ 
hymns  of  high  hope  and  holy  joy,  rising  up  from  the 
darkness  of  this  world  to  the  throne  of  Him  'who 
giveth  songs  in  the  night,'  and  enables  His  servants  to 
praise  Him  even  in  the  fires ;  some  among  the  chief 
sufferers,  Paul  Gerhardt,  for  instance,  and  Schirmer 
(the  'German  Job,'  as  he  called  himself,  with  allu- 
sion to  all  that  he  had  gone  through),  being  the  chief 
lyrists  as  well."  * 

Paul  Gerhardt  ranks  next  to  Luther,  whom  he  in 
some  respects  resembles,  and  from  whom  he  was  sep- 
arated in  time  by  about  a  century.  His  hymns  hap- 
pily combine  simplicity  with  depth  and  force.  They 
are  the  heart-utterances  of  one  who  had  a  simple  but 
sublime  faith  in  God,  and  who  recognized  His  fa- 
therly presence  in  the  affairs  of  life. 

A  certain  impressiveness,  a  certain  sorrowfulness,  a 
certain  fervor,  were  peculiar  to  him :  he  was  a  guest 
on  earth  ;  and  everywhere,  in  his  one  hundred  and 
twenty-three  songs,  sun-flowers  are  sown.  This 
flower  ever  turns  to  the  sun,  so  does  Gerhardt  to  a 
blessed  eternity.  The  love  with  which  the  contem- 
poraries of  Gerhardt,  as  far  as  the  bell  of  an  evangeli- 
cal church  was  heard,  turned  to  his  song,  has  only 
one  precedent,  —  the  veneration,  the  devotion,  with 
which  Luther's  songs  were  regarded.  He  was  born 
in  Saxony  in  1606.  When  he  had  attained  his  twelfth 
year,  the  terrible  thirty  years'  war  broke  out;  and 
his  family  seem  to  have  suffered  much  by  its  ravages. 
Forced,  for  a  season,  to  forsake  his  native  land,  he 
was  recalled,  in  1631,  to  fill  the  office  of  preacher  to 

•  Archbishop  Trench. 


142  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

the  Nicholai  Church  at  Berhn  ;  where  he  remained  for 
ten  years,  honored  and  respected  by  all  who  knew 
him.  But  his  religious  sentiments  did  not  wholly  co- 
incide with  those  of  the  king ;  and  Gerhardt,  too  con- 
scientious to  dissemble,  was  ordered  to  resign  his 
appointment  and  quit  the  country.  Utterly  destitute, 
not  knowing  where  to  lay  his  head  or  how  to  provide 
for  his  helpless  family,  Gerhardt  left  the  home  where 
he  had  spent  so  many  happy  years.  "But  no  afflic- 
tion, however  terrible,  could  shake  his  confidence  in 
Divine  wisdom  and  mercy.  After  some  consideration, 
he  determined  on  directing  his  steps  towards  his  native 
land,  Saxony,  where  he  yet  hoped  to  find  friends. 
The  journey,  performed  on  foot,  was  long  and  weary. 
Gerhardt  bore  up  manfully :  his  heart  failed  him 
only  when  he  gazed  on  his  wife  and  little  ones. 
When  night  arrived,  the  travellers  sought  repose 
in  a  little  village-inn  by  the  road-side  ;  where  Ger- 
hardt's  wife,  unable  to  restrain  her  anguish,  gave 
way  to  a  burst  of  natural  emotion.  Her  husband, 
concealing  his  anxious  cares,  reminded  her  of  that 
beautiful  verse  of  Scripture,  'Trust  in  the  Lord; 
in  all  thy  ways  acknowledge  Him,  and  He  shall 
direct  thy  paths.'  The  words,  uttered  to  comfort  his 
afflicted  partner,  impressed  his  own  mind  so  deeply, 
that,  seating  himself  in  a  little  arbor  in  the  garden, 
he  composed  that  hymn  which  has  rendered  his  name 
celebrated  :  "  *  — 

Commit  thou  all  thy  griefs  and  ways  into  His  hands, 
To  His  sure  truth  and  tender  care,  who  earth  and  heaven  com- 
mands ; 
Who  points  the  clouds  their  course,  whom  winds  and  seas  obey, — 
He  shall  direct  thy  wandering  feet,  He  shall  prepare  thy  way. 


GERMAN.  THIRTY    YEARS     WAR.  I43 

And  then  listen  to  the  fine  closing  stanza  :  — 

Give  to  the  winds  thy  fears,  hope,  and  be  undismayed : 
God  hears  thy  sighs,  and  counts  thy  tears,  —  God  shall  lift  up  thy 
head. 

We  are  informed,  that  he  composed  this  beautiful 
hymn  of  trust,  in  the  dark  hour  of  his  destitution, 
without  pause  or  effort.  It  was  one  of  the  many  Ger- 
man hymns  born  of  sorrow  and  suffering.  "Evening 
had  now  deepened,  and  the  pastor  and  his  wife  were 
about  to  retire  to  rest,  when  two  gentlemen  entered 
the  little  parlor  in  which  they  were  seated.  They 
began  to  converse  with  the  poet;  and  soon  told  him, 
that  they  were  on  their  way  to  Berlin  to  seek  the 
deposed  clergyman,  Paul  Gerhardt,  by  order  of  their 
lord,  Duke  Christian  of  Meresberg.  At  these  words, 
Madame  Gerhardt  turned  pale,  dreading  some  further 
calamity.  But  her  husband,  calm  in  his  trust  in  an 
overruling  Providence,  at  once  declared  that  he  was 
the  individual  they  were  in  search  of,  and  inquired  their 
errand.  Great  was  the  astonishment  and  delight  of 
both  wife  and  husband,  when  one  of  the  strangers 
presented  Gerhardt  with  an  autograph  letter  from  the 
duke  himself,  informing  him  that  he  had  settled  a 
considerable  pension  on  him,  to  atone  for  the  injustice 
of  which  he  had  been  the  victim.  Then  the  pious  and 
gifted  preacher  turned  towards  his  wife,  and  gave  her 
the  hymn  he  had  composed  during  his  brief  absence, 
with  the  words,  "See,  how  God  provides!  Did  I  not 
bid  you  confide  in  Him,  and  all  would  be  well?"* 
Some  years  after,  Gerhardt  was  appointed  Archdeacon 
at  Liibben,  in  which  office  he  continued  till  his  death, 

•  In  Kelly's  biography,  this  incident  concerning  Gerhardt's  destitution  is  doubted:  it  is 
otherwise  regarded  by  Madame  De  Pontes  in  her  "Poets  and  Poetry  of  Germany." 


144  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

which  took  place  in  1676,  after  he  had  faithfully  served 
in  the  ministry  twenty-five  years.  This  excellent  man 
died,  it  is  related,  repeating  a  verse  of  his  own  hymn, 
which,  in  our  translation,  commences,  "Wherefore 
should  I  grieve  and  pine  ?  "     It  was  this  stanza  :  — 

Yea,  though  death  seem  close  at  hand, 
Calm  and  quiet  should  he  stand, 

And  his  spirit  tremble  not ; 
Him  no  death  has  power  to  kill, 
But  from  many  a  dreaded  ill 

Bears  his  spirit  safe  away  ; 
Shuts  the  door  of  bitter  woes, 
Opens  yon  bright  path  that  glows 

With  the  light  of  perfect  day ! 

He  stands  out  the  central  figure  of  the  second 
century  of  the  singers  of  the  Reformed  Church,  as 
Luther  does  of  the  first.  One  of  his  hymns.  Luther- 
like, he  composed,  after  a  night  of  weary  anguish  on 
the  altar-steps  of  his  church  at  Liibben ;  and  many 
others  of  his  compositions  were  born  of  sorrow  and 
suffering.  They  penetrated  to  all  ranks  of  society, 
and  were  sung  by  young  and  old,  even  in  the  streets. 
Schiller  learned  Gerhardt's  hymns  from  his  mother, 
his  evening-hymn  being  an  especial  favorite. 

Here  are  two  stanzas  from  a  battle-hymn  of  Paul 
Gerhardt,  which,  we  may  easily  believe,  gushed  forth 
from  his  overcharged  heart :  — 

Arise,  and  stem  this  tide  of  woe,  of  heart-ache  and  of  pain ; 

Call  back  Thy  flock,  and  make  them  know  bright  days  again  ; 

To  peace  and  wealth  the  lands  restore,  wasted  with  fire,  or  plague, 

or  sword  ; 
Come  to  Thy  ruined  churches.  Lord,  and  bid  them  bloom  once  more. 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS     WAR.  I45 

Give  strong  and  cheerful  hearts  to  stand  undaunted  in  the  wars, 
That  Satan's  works,  and  mighty  band,  are  waging  with  Thy  cause. 
Help  us  to  fight  as  warriors  brave, 
That  we  may  conquer  in  the  field. 
And  not  one  Christian  man  may  yield 
His  soul  to  sin  a  slave. 

Order,  according  to  Thy  mind,  our  life  from  day  to  day ; 
And  when  this  Hfe  must  be  resigned,  and  Death  shall  seize  his  prey, 
When  all  our  days  have  fleeted  by, 
Help  us  to  die  with  fearless  spirit ; 
And  let  us,  after  death,  inherit 
Eternal  life  on  high  ! 

Turn   we   now  to    a   sweet  little   lyric   of  his,  on 
Christmas :  — 

All  my  heart  this  night  rejoices 

As  I  hear,  far  and  near,  sweetest  angel-voices  ; 

"  Christ  is  born  ! "     Their  choirs  are  singing, 

Till  the  air  everywhere  now  with  joy  is  ringing. 

For  it  dawns,  the  promised  morrow 

Of  His  birth,  who  on  earth  rescues  from  her  sorrow. 

God,  to  wear  our  form,  descendeth  ; 

Of  His  grace,  to  our  race,  here  His  Son  He  lendeth. 

Come,  then,  let  us  hasten  yonder  ; 

Let  us  all,  great  and  small,  kneel  in  awe  and  wonder. 

Love  Him  who  with  love  is  yearning; 

Hail  the  star  that  from  afar  bright  with  hope  is  burning  ! 

Hither  come,  ye  heavy-hearted, 

Who,  for  sin,  deep  within,  long  and  sore  have  smarted 

For  the  poisoned  wounds  you're  feeling 

Help  is  near,  One  is  here  mighty  for  their  heaHng  ! 

The   following   translation   of  another   of   his   fine 
hymns  is  from  the  "Lyra  Germanica:"  — 

Go  forth,  my  heart,  and  seek  delight 

In  all  the  gifts  of  God's  great  mighl, 

These  pleasant  summer  hours  ; 

10 


146  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Look,  how  the  plains  for  thee  and  me 
Have  decked  themselves  most  fair  to  see, 
All  brisrht  and  sweet  with  flowers. 


The  lark  soars  singing  into  space, 
The  dove  forsakes  her  hiding-place, 

And  cooes  the  woods  among ; 
The  richly  gifted  nightingale 
Pours  forth  her  voice  o'er  hill  and  dale, 

And  floods  the  fields  with  song. 

I  think,  art  Thou  so  good  to  us, 
And  scatterest  joy  and  beauty  thus, 

O'er  this  poor  earth  of  ours  ; 
What  nobler  glories  shall  be  given 
Hereafter  in  Thy  shining  heaven 

Set  round  with  golden  towers  ! 

What  thrilling  joy,  when  on  our  sight 
Christ's  garden  beams  in  cloudless  light. 

Where  all  the  air  is  sweet, 
Still  laden  with  the  unwearied  hymn 
From  all  the  thousand  seraphim. 

Who  God's  high  praise  repeat ! 

Gerhardt  was  peculiarly  a  "  son  of  consolation  :"  his 
hymns  of  charity,  hope,  and  faith,  were  full  of  thanks- 
giving and  cheer,  just  what  all  Christian  utterances 
ought  to  be.  Whether  he  sang  to  the  soul's  secret 
needs,  or  to  the  loud  clarion  of  battle,  the  same  true- 
hearted  faith  inspired  his  song.  Fighting  under  the 
standard  of  Gustavus,  no  doubts  ever  crossed  his 
mind  about  the  lawfulness  of  taking  up  arms ;  but  he 
and  his  comrades  felt  convinced  they  were  obe3'ing  a 
heaven-sent  leader,  as  truly  accredited  as  Joshua,  or 
Gideon,  or  David.  "Militare  est  orare"  was  the  motto 
of  their  banner. 


GERMAN. — THIRTY   YEARS    WAR.  147 

These  beautiful  stanzas  are  from  the  German  of 
Zehn :  — • 

God  liveth  ever ! 
Wherefore,  soul,  despair  thou  never  ! 
He  who  can  earth  and  heaven  control, 

Who  spreads  the  clouds  o'er  sea  and  land, 
Whose  presence  fills  the  mighty  whole, 
In  each  true  heart  is  close  at  hand. 
Love  Him,  He  will  surely  send 
Help  and  joy  that  never  end. 
Soul,  remember  in  thy  pains, 
God  o'er  all  for  ever  reigns ! 

God  liveth  ever ! 
Wherefore,  soul,  despair  thou  never  ! 
Scarce  canst  thou  bear  thy  cross  ?     Then  fly 

To  Him  where  rest  is  only  sweet ; 
Thy  God  is  great,  His  mercy  nigh. 
His  strength  upholds  the  tottering  feet 
Trust  Him,  for  His  grace  is  sure, 
Ever  doth  His  truth  endure  ; 
Soul,  forget  not  in  thy  pains, 
God  o'er  all  for  ever  reigns  ! 

God  liveth  ever ! 
Wherefore,  soul,  despair  thou  never  I 
What  though  thou  tread  with  bleeding  feet 

A  thorny  path  of  grief  and  gloom. 
Thy  God  will  choose  the  way  most  meet 
To  lead  thee  heavenwards,  lead  thee  home. 
For  this  life's  long  night  of  sadness. 
He  will  give  thee  peace  and  gladness  ! 
Soul,  forget  not  in  thy  pains, 
God  o'er  all  for  ever  reigns  ! 

Count  Zinzendorf  was  not  one  of  the  least  among 
the  sacred  brotherhood  of  song,  as  he  was  the  founder 
and  champion  of  the  United  Moravian  Brethren.  He 
was  born  at  Dresden,  in  the  year  1700,  and  died  in 


140  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

1760.  His  zeal  and  self-denying  service  in  behalf  of 
the  community  he  represented,  were  most  exemplary. 
"  In  all  parts  of  the  world  he  vindicated  the  claims  of 
the  Moravians,  and,  when  the  community  was  insol- 
vent, he  undertook  the  burden  of  their  debt;  and,  at 
his  death,  he  owed  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  million 
of  money  on  that  account.  He  had  been  elected  pres- 
ident of  Herrnhut,  the  estate  of  the  community,  in' 
Saxony ;  and  he  devoted  himself  heartily  to  its  spirit- 
ual interests."  *  One  of  the  means  employed^  according 
to  his  biographer, f  was  singing,  to  which  he  attached 
great  importance.  "  His  stock  of  hymns,  which  he 
could  at  any  time  recall,  was  as  wonderful  as  his 
power  of  extemporaneous  composition.  Sometimes 
he  would  sing  a  number  of  verses  taken  from  various 
hymns,  and  interspersed  with  others  composed  at  the 
moment,  thus  producing  a  kind  of  lyric  discourse, — 
an  echo  to  the  voice  of  the  Hebrew  prophets,  —  which 
seems  to  have  produced  a  profound  impression."  His 
"  Berlin  Discourses,"  a  series  of  daily  addresses  which 
he  delivered  in  his  own  house,  passed  through  many 
editions,  and  were  translated  into  several  languages. 
"  In  1729,  Zinzendorf  paid  a  short  visit  to  St.  Thomas  ; 
and,  1741,  he  made  a  missionary  visit  to  America, 
where  he  remained  more  than  a  year  doing  a  good 
work  in  Pennsylvania,  and  attempting  something  for 
the  North-American  Indians.  One  of  his  celebrated 
hymns,  consisting  of  thirty-three  stanzas,  and  made 
familiar  to  us  by  Wesley's  translation,  is,  "Jesus,  Thy 
blood  and  righteousness  ! " 

Here  is  a  compact  stanza  on  Christian  Unity,  from 
the  German  of  Count  Zinzendorf  :  — 

•  Millet's  Our   Hvmns.  t  Felix  Bovct. 


GERMAN.  THIRTY    YEARS     WAR.  I49 

Thou  who  didst  die  for  all  and  each,  and  in  that  last,  sad  night. 
Didst  to  Thy  flock  so  sweetly  teach  Love's  all-controlling  might ; 
Still  on  Thy  little  band  impress,  who  else  may  disagree, 
Thy  last  and  dying  care  was  this,  —  Thy  members'  unity ! 

The  fine  hymn,  from  which  the  following  lines  are 
taken,  has  been  rendered  into  German,  from  the  Latin, 
by  Count  Zinzendorf ;  or,  rather,  was  poured  forth 
from  St.  Bernard's  heart  into  his.  Here  is  the  English 
version  by  Caswell :  — 

Jesus,  the  very  thought  of  Thee 

With  sweetness  fills  my  breast; 
But  sweeter  far  Thy  face  to  see, 

And  in  Thy  presence  rest. 

No  voice  can  sing,  nor  heart  can  frame, 

Nor  can  the  memory  find, 
A  sweeter  sound  than  Thy  blest  name, 

O  Saviour  of  mankind  ! 

O  hope  of  every  contrite  heart ! 

O  joy  of  all  the  meek ! 
To  those  who  fall,  how  kind  Thou  art. 

How  good  to  those  who  seek  ! 

But  what  to  those  who  find  ?     Ah  !  this 

Nor  tongue  nor  pen  can  show ; 
The  love  of  Jesus,  what  it  is 

None  but  His  loved  ones  know. 

Among  German  hymnists  of  eminence  was  Rothe, 
who  was  born  in  Silesia,  1688,  and  died  in  1758. 
Count  Zinzendorf  was  his  friend  and  patron.  He 
was  an  excellent  pastor,  and  united  in  himself  ripe 
scholarship  and  exemplary  piety.  The  count  selected 
him  to  fill  the  office  of  pastor  for  his  estate  of  Berthels- 
dorf,  the  duties  of  which  he  discharged  to  the  admira- 
tion of  all  who  knew  him.  He  wrote  some  hymns, 
which  have  been  translated,   and  transferred  to  our 


150  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

modern  collections.  One  begins,  "  Lord,  at  Thy  feet 
we  sinners  lie  ;  "  another,  "  O  Lord,  Thy  work  revive." 
A.  H.  Francke  (1691)  composed  a  fine  hymn,  on 
his  journey  to  Gotha,  after  his  unjust  expulsion  from 
Erfurt,  as  we  are  told  in  the  oration  delivered  at  his 
grave,  "in  the  full  experience  of  the  unspeakable 
consolations  of  the  Holy  Spirit."  We  cite  only  two 
specimen  stanzas.     It  is  a  New-Year's  hymn. 

Thank  God  that  towards  eternity  another  step  is  won  ! 

Oh,  longing  turns  my  heart  to  Thee,  as  time  flows  slowly  on  ! 

Thou  Fountain  whence  my  life  is  born, 

Whence  those  rich  streams  of  grace  are  drawn, 
That  through  my  being  run ! 

Oh,  that  I  soon  might  Thee  behold  !    I  count  the  moments  o'er ; 
Ah,  come,  ere  yet  my  heart  grows  cold,  and  cannot  call  Thee  more  ! 

Come  in  Thy  glory,  for  Thy  Bride 

Hath  girt  her  for  the  holy-tide, 
And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

Simon  Dach,  a  professor  at  Konigsberg,  whei-e  he 
died  in  1659,  was  remarkable  for  the  contemplative 
serenity  and  correct  structure  of  his  hymns.  The 
sacred  lyrics  of  Germany,  during  this  epoch,  are  in- 
terfused with  the  great  doctrines  of  holy  Scripture  ; 
these,  indeed,  constitute  the  warp  and  woof  of  their 
texture  ;  among  great  diversities  of  literary  and  poetic 
merit,  this,  their  evangelical  character,  is  uniformly 
maintained.  Here  is  his  beautiful  homily  on  self- 
denial,  compacted  into  two  stanzas  :  — 

Wouldst  thou  inherit  life  with  Christ  on  high? 

Then  count  the  cost,  and  know 

That  here  on  earth  below 
Thou  needs  must  suffer  with  Thy  Lord,  and  die. 
We  reach  that  gain,  to  which  all  else  is  loss. 
But  throusrh  the  Cross  ! 


GERMAN. THIRTY   YEARS'    WAR.  I5I 

Not  e'en  the  sharpest  sorrows  we  can  feel, 

Nor  keenest  pangs,  we  dare 

With  that  great  bliss  compare, 
When  God  His  glory  shall  in  us  reveal. 
That  shall  endure  when  our  brief  woes  are  o'er 
For  evermore  ! 

Listen  to  his  good  counsel  concerning  "  Treasure  in 
Heaven  :"  — 

My  soul,  let  this  thy  thoughts  employ : 

Defer  not  until  death  to  ponder 
On  what  shall  be  the  heavenly  joy 

Which  God's  redeemed  are  promised  yonder. 

Thy  true  wealth  lies  beyond  the  skies. 
And  there  shouldst  thou  be  ever  gazing ; 

Learn,  then,  earth's  treasures  to  despise, 
To  heaven  your  aspirations  raising. 

There  is  impressive  grandeur  about  the  following 
poem,  translated  from  the  German  of  Seidl,  by 
C.  T.  Brooks:  — 

"  Lord,  Thou  art  great !  "  I  cry,  when  in  the  east 
The  day  is  blooming  like  a  rose  of  fire  ; 
When,  to  partake  anew  of  life's  rich  feast. 

Nature  and  man  awake  with  fresh  desire. 
When  art  Thou  seen  more  gracious,  God  of  power ! 
Than  in  the  morn's  great  resurrection-hour  ? 

"  Lord,  Thou  art  great !  "  I  cry,  when  blackness  shrouds 
The  noon-day  heavens,  and  crinkling  lightnings  flame, 
And  on  the  tablet  of  the  thunder-clouds 

In  fiery  letters  write  Thy  dreadful  name. 
When  art  Thou,  Lord,  more  terrible  in  wrath. 
Than  in  the  mid-day  tempest's  lowering  path  1 

"  Lord,  Thou  art  great !  "  I  cry,  when  in  the  west 
Day,  softly-vanquished,  shuts  his  glowing  eye  ; 
When  song-feasts  ring  from  every  woodland  nest, 
And  all  in  melancholy  sweetness  die. 


152  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

When  giv'st  Thou,  Lord,  our  hearts  more  bless'd  repose 
Than  in  the  magic  of  Thy  evening  shows  ? 

"  Lord,  Thou  art  great !  "  I  cry,  at  dead  of  night. 
When  silence  broods  ahke  on  land  and  deep  ; 
When  stars  go  up  and  down  the  blue-arched  height, 

And  on  the  silver  clouds  the  moonbeams  sleep. 
When  beckonest  Thou,  O  Lord  !  to  loftier  heights, 
Than  in  the  silent  praise  of  holy  nights  ? 

"  Lord,  Thou  art  great !  "  in  nature's  every  form  ; 
Greater  in  none,  —  simply  most  great  in  all ; 
In  tears  and  terrors,  sunshine,  smile,  and  storm, 
And  all  that  stirs  the  heart,  is  felt  Thy  call. 
"  Lord,  Thou  art  great !  "     Oh,  let  me  praise  Thy  name, 
And  grow  in  greatness  as  I  Thine  proclaim  ! 

Gleim  was  born  in  17 19.  Through  the  good  offices 
of  some  friends,  he  obtained  an  appointment  connected 
with  the  Cathedral  of  Halberstadt,  whither  he  re- 
moved in  1776,  and  where  he  continued  to  remain 
several  years.  Few  lives  passed  away  with  such  un- 
interrupted tranquillity,  as  that  of  Gleim.  Overflowing 
with  benevolence,  he  found,  in  the  exercise  of  kindness 
and  hospitality,  the  friendship  of  Klopstock,  and  other 
distinguished  men,  all  the  happiness  his  gentle  nature 
desired.  During  the  seven  years'  war,  when  Germany 
was  divided  into  two  hostile  camps,  it  was  a  stirring 
and  momentous  epoch,  especially  for  Prussia.  Gleim's 
devotion  to  the  heroic  Prussian  hero,  Frederick,  was 
kindled  into  enthusiasm  ;  and  he  enlisted  in  the  for 
tunes  of  his  cause.  He  wrote  religious  songs,  which 
the  soldiers  sang  on  the  battle-field.  His  protracted 
life  was  enriched  by  numerous  benefactions  conferred 
upon  others ;  and  his  memory  was  sweet,  "  and  blos- 
somed in  the  dust."  There  is  simple  pathos  and 
melody  in  the  following  lyric  of  his  :  — 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  153 

For  whom  hast  Thou  created,  O  Lord  !  this  world  so  bright  ? 
For  whom  are  bud  and  blossom  in  the  glen  and  on  the  height  ? 
For  whom  the  golden  cornfield,  where  our  glad  footsteps  rove  ? 
For  whom  do  yonder  sunbeams  gild  the  meadow  and  the  grove  ? 

The  blessings  that  surround  us,  should  be  a  call  of  love. 
To  raise,  with  each  returning  morn,  our  thoughts  to  Him  above. 
Not  vainly  dost  Thou  give  us  this,  a  heart  to  feel  and  love, — 
A  foretaste  of  the  purer  bliss  which  shall  be  ours  above  ! 

Contemporary  with  Gleim,  was  Kleist,  who  was 
born  in  Pomerania,  1715.  His  poems  have  procured 
for  him  less  celebrity  than  his  patriotic  devotion  to 
his  king  and  country.  The  following  hymn  has  long 
been  a  favorite  with  the  Prussian  soldiers ;  for  the 
translation,  as  well  as  that  of  the  preceding  hymn, 
we  are  indebted  to  the  pen  of  Madame  De  Pontes. 

Great  is  the  Lord  !     The  heavens  proclaim  afar 

His  power :  they  are  His  seat ; 
The  raging  storm  is  His  triumphal  car ; 

His  steed,  the  lightning  fleet. 

The  hues  of  morn  are  a  reflection  dim 

Of  His  resplendent  might ; 
The  sun  itself  is  but  a  spark  of  Him, 

The  source  of  life  and  light. 

Thou  foaming  ocean,  in  thy  stormy  bed, 

Tremble  before  His  frown  ; 
Bend,  lofty  cedar,  bend  thy  stately  head ; 

Forests  and  woods,  bow  down. 

Ye  savage  monsters,  in  your  rocky  den. 

Adore  your  Maker's  power  ; 
Sing  Him,  ye  little  warblers  of  the  glen. 

In  grove  and  hill  and  bower. 

Echo,  exalt  His  name  !  in  earth  and  heaven 

Be  that  Great  Name  adored  ! 
And  thou,  O  man  !  to  whom  this  world  is  given, 

Worship  and  bless  the  Lord  ! 


154  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Kleist  bore  no  inglorious  part  in  several  important 
actions.  On  one  occasion,  when  the  Austrians,  with 
a  force  of  eighty  thousand  men,  surprised  the  Prussian 
army,  greatly  inferior  in  strength,  Kleist,  at  the  head 
of  his  battalion,  defended  a  narrow  defile,  by  which 
their  position  was  commanded,  with  such  resolute  val- 
or, that  the  enemy,  after  repeated  attacks,  retired. 
This  gallant  deed,  in  all  probability,  saved  the  whole 
army. 

During  the  calamitous  seven  years'  war,  might  have 
been  seen  in  a  small  room,  at  Leipzig,  a  poor  scholar 
surrounded  with  a  heap  of  books ;  and,  among  them, 
on  the  table,  was  a  well-used  Bible,  opened  at  the 
second  chapter  of  the  book  of  Job,  and  the  w^ords, 
underlined,  "What!  shall  we  receive  good  at  the 
hand  of  God,  and  shall  we  not  receive  evil?"  This 
Christian  student  was  C.  F.  Gellert,  who  became  one 
of  the  most  esteemed  and  honored  of  the  sacred  poets 
of  Germany.  Princes,  and  celebrated  persons,  made 
pilgrimages  to  visit  him;  even  Frederic  the  Great  had 
an  interview  with  him.  He  w^as  contemporary  wdth 
Klopstock,  Kleist,  Schlegel,  Lessing,  and  Goethe. 
His  Muse  drew  inspiration  from  the  Bible ;  and  his 
hymns  were  heart-utterances,  and  therefore  appealed 
to  the  heart, — took  deep  root,  and  obtained  a  wide- 
spread and  enduring  popularit}'.  Goethe  thus  speaks 
of  him  as  a  lecturer:  "The  reverence  and  affection 
which  Gellert  received  from  all  the  young  men  was 
extraordinary.  His  lecture-room  was  always  crowd- 
ed to  the  utmost ;  and  Gellert's  beautiful  soul,  purity 
of  will,  his  admonitions,  warnings,  and  entreaties,  de- 
livered in  a  somewhat  hollow  and  sad  voice,  produced 
a  deep  impression."  His  hymn  on  Creation  has  beeji 
thus  rendered  into  our  vernacular  :  — 


GERMAN.  — THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  155 

Creator  !  when  I  see  Thy  might,  Thy  wisdom,  and  Thy  love, 
For  ever  watching,  day  and  night,  o'er  all  below,  above  ; 

Melted  with  gratitude  and  praise, 

I  know  not  how  my  voice  to  raise, 
My  Father  and  my  God ! 

Where'er  I  turn,  my  dazzled  eye  beholds  Thy  wonders  still,  — 
The  glorious  heavens,  the  azure  sky,  adore  their  Maker's  skill ! 

Who  bids  the  sun  so  brightly  shine, 

Clothed  in  his  majesty  divine. 
Who  calls  the  starry  host  ? 

Yet  more  stirring  are  some  of  his  stanzas,  entitled 
"The  Solace  of  the  Life  to  come  : "  — 

When  these  brief  trial-days  are  spent,  there  dawns  a  glad  eternity ! 
There,  lost  in  measureless  content,  our  tears  and  sorrows  cease  to  be ; 

Here  virtue  toils  with  earnest  care  : 

Her  glorious  crown  awaits  her  there  ! 

Here,  I  must  seek :  there,  I  shall  find ;  for  there  shall  virtue  all 

unfold 
Before  my  holier,  purer  mind,  her  worth  so  great,  so  manifold ; 

The  God  of  Love,  whom  I  adore, 

I  there  shall  worship  more  and  more. 

There,  in  that  light,  shall  I  discern  what  here  on  earth  I  dimly 

saw,  — 
Those  deep  and  wondrous  counsels  learn,  whose  mystery  filled  me 
here  with  awe  ; 
There  trace,  with  gratitude  intense, 
The  hidden  links  of  Providence. 

Perchance,  —  ah,  would  that  this  might  be!  —  will  some  blest  soul 

in  that  abode 
Cry,  "  Hail !  for  thou  hast  rescued  me,  and  won  my  heart  to  heaven 
and  God  !  " 
Oh,  God  !  what  exquisite  delight. 
To  save  a  soul  from  sin  and  night ! 

This  worthy  Christian  singer,  after  a  life  enriched 
by  very  numerous  benefactions,  and  much  occasional 


156  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

suffering,  endured  with  exemplary  patience  and  seren- 
ity, left  the  world  he  had  benefited  for  the  "rest  that 
remaineth,"  in  1769,  at  the  age  of  fifty-four.  "I  am 
weak,  and  cannot  understand  much,"  he  said,  shortly 
before  he  ceased  to  breathe ;  "but  pronounce  the  name 
of  my  Redeemer,  —  when  I  hear  that,  I  feel  fresh 
strength  and  joy."  Gellert's  death  was  regarded  as 
a  national  calamity.  His  biographer  says,  "Perhaps 
no  grave  has  ever  been  watered  with  so  many  and 
such  sincere  tears."  Let  it  be  repeated,  he  was  a 
great  Bible  reader,  and  a  firm  believer  in  Provi- 
dence. 

Some  time  since  there  was  a  pamphlet  published 
in  London,  entitled  "  The  Adventures  of  a  Hymn,"  in 
which  are  detailed  the  remarkable  results  which  attend- 
ed his  beautiful  hymn,  "Ich  hab  in  guten  Stunden," 
written  by  him  under  circumstances  of  great  privation 
and  sickness;  and,  what  is  still  more  remarkable, 
suffering  from  want  of  the  necessities  of  life,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  ultra-generosity  to  others  in  distress. 
But  his  unfaltering  trust  in  God's  promises  nerved 
him  to  endure  in  the  hour  of  trial ;  and  when  his  faith 
was  justified,  it  uttered  itself  in  fresh  songs  of  thanks- 
giving. The  blessing  of  many,  "who  were  ready  to 
perish,"  came  upon  him  like  light  from  heaven. 

Here  is  a  beautiful  1\  ric  gem  from  the  German  of 
Arndt.     The  translation  is  by  E.  F.  Cox. 

Therefore,  now,  a  last  good  night ! 
Sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  of  fire, 
Farewell  to  your  splendor  bright ! 
Higher  now  I  soar,  far  higher. 
Where  there  is  such  glorious  day, 
Ye  will  vanish  quite  away. 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS'   WAR.  I57 

Weep  not,  that  I  bid  farewell 
To  the  world  and  all  its  errors  ; 
Far  from  vanity  to  dwell, 
Far  from  darkness  and  its  terrors  ; 
Weep  not,  that  I  take  my  flight 
To  the  land  of  endless  light ! 
Weep  not,  my  Redeemer  lives, 
High  above  dark  earth  ascending : 
Hope,  her  heavenly  comfort  gives  ; 
Faith  stands  by,  her  shield  extending ; 
Love  eternal  whispers  near, 
'•  Child  of  God,  no  longer  fear  !  " 

Schiller,  the  illustrious  friend  of  Goethe,  was  born 
in  1759,  and  died  1805.  He  lived  in  almost  monastic 
seclusion  from  the  world.  At  sixteen,  he  published  a 
translation  of  a  part  of  the  "u^neid."  He  was  a  great 
student  of  Shakspeare ;  and  to  this  fact,  doubtless,  we 
owe  his  splendid  dramas.  His  Histories  of  the  "  Revolt 
of  the  Netherlands  "  and  of  the  "  Thirty  Years'  War  " 
have  long  been  standard  authorities.  He  was  by  far 
the  greatest  tragic  poet  of  Germany,  and  one  of  the 
greatest,  also,  in  modern  literature.  The  moral  eleva- 
tion of  his  writings  place  him  above  most  of  his  Ger- 
man predecessors  and  successors.  His  "Song  of  the 
Bell"  is  a  wonderful  production,  and  replete  with 
poetic  beauties. 

The  following  is  an  English  version  of  Schiller's 
"Three  Words  of  Strength,"  the  triple  Christian 
graces : — 

There  are  three  lessons  I  would  write,  — 

Three  words,  as  with  a  burning  pen, 
In  tracings  of  eternal  light, 
Upon  the  hearts  of  men. 
Have  hope  !     Though  clouds  environ  round, 

And  gladness  hides  her  face  in  scorn, 
Put  thou  the  shadow  from  thy  brow, 
No  nisfht  but  hath  its  morn. 


15,5  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Have  faith  !     Where'er  thy  bark  is  driven,  — 
The  calm's  disport,  the  tempest's  mirth, — 

Know  this  :  God  rules  the  hosts  of  heaven, 
The  inhabitants  of  earth. 

Have  love  !     Not  love  alone  for  one, 

But  man,  as  man,  thy  brother  call. 
And  scatter,  like  the  circling  sun. 

Thy  charities  on  all. 

Thus  grave  these  lessons  on  thy  soul, 

Hope,  faith,  and  love  ;  and  thou  shalt  find 

Strength  when  life's  surges  rudest  roll, 
Light  when  thou  else  wert  blind. 

This  fine  spiritual  lyric,  written  in  1713,  by  Mar- 
purger,  has  been  admirably  rendered  into  our  ver- 
nacular by  Miss  Winkworth  :  — 

Who  seeks  in  weakness  an  excuse,  his  sins  will  vanish  never ; 
Unless  he  heart  and  mind  renews,  he  is  deceived  for  ever. 
The  straight  and  narrow  way,  that  shines  to  perfect  day. 

He  hath  not  found,  hath  never  trod ; 
Little  he  knows,  I  ween,  what  prayer  and  conflict  mean. 

To  one  who  hath  the  light  of  God. 

In  what  the  world  calls  weakness  lurks  the  veiy  strength  of  evil ; 
Full  mightily  it  helps  the  works  of  our  great  foe,  the  devil. 
Awake,  my  soul,  awake  !  quickly  thy  refuge  take 

With  Him,  the  Almighty,  who  can  save  ; 
One  look  from  Christ,  thy  Lord,  can  sever  every  cord 

That  binds  thee  now,  a  wretched  slave. 

Know,  the  first  step  in  Christian  lore  is  to  depart  from  sin  ; 
True  faith  will  leave  the  world  no  more  a  place  thy  heart  within. 
Thy  Saviour's  Spirit  first  the  heavy  bonds  must  burst. 

Wherein  Death  bound  thee  in  thy  need  ; 
Then,  the  freed  spirit  knows  what  strength  He  gives  to  those 

Who,  with  their  Lord,  are  risen  indeed  ! 

Bogatzky,  who  is  not  known  to  us  so  much  by  his 
hymns,  of  which  he  wrote  about  four  hundred,  as  by 


GERMAN.  THIRTY    YEARS     WAR.  I59 

his  "Golden  Treasury,"  was  born  in  1690,  in  Hun- 
gary. He  was  early  inspired  by  the  faith  of  the  gos- 
pel;  and,  although  a  person  of  ample  fortune,  he 
devoted  himself  to  visiting  the  sick,  and  commending 
the  great  truths  of  Christianity  to  the  poor.  His 
memory  is  embalmed  in  the  hearts  of  thousands  in 
every  Protestant  land,  by  the  hymns,  and  the  "Treas- 
ury," he  has  bequeathed  to  us.     These  lines  are  his : 

Awake,  Thou  Spirit,  who  of  old 
Didst  fire  the  watchmen  of  the  Church's  youth, 

Who  faced  the  foe,  unshrinking,  bold. 
Who  witnessed  day  and  night  the  eternal  truth  ; 
Whose  voices  through  the  world  are  ringing  still, 
And  bringing  hosts  to  know  and  do  Thy  will ! 

Oh,  that  Thy  fire  were  kindled  soon, 
That  swift  from  land  to  land  its  flame  might  leap  ! 

Lord,  give  us  but  this  priceless  boon 
Of  faithful  servants,  fit  for  Thee  to  reap 
The  harvest  of  the  soul ;  look  down  and  view 
How  great  the  harvest,  yet  the  laborers  few. 

Oh,  haste  to  help  ere  we  are  lost ! 
Send  forth  evangelists,  in  spirit  strong. 

Armed  with  Thy  Word,  a  dauntless  host, 
Bold  to  attack  the  rule  of  ancient  wrong  ; 
And  let  them  all  the  earth  for  Thee  reclaim, 
To  be  Thy  kingdom,  and  to  know  Thy  name  ! 

Tersteegen's  hymns  (1697-1769)  possess  great 
poetic  beauty,  and  evince  a  tranquil  and  childlike 
spirit  of  devotion.  His  history  is  a  remarkable  one. 
From  his  childhood,  he  was  delicate  in  health, 
thoughtful,  and  of  scrupulous  conscience.  At  Miil- 
heim,  he  became  acquainted  with  a  mystic,  —  a  very 
religious  man,  under  whose  instructions  he  became 
converted.     His  days  were  busy,  but  he  used  to  pass 


l6o  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

whole  nights  in  prayer  and  fasting.  He  occupied 
himself  as  a  weaver;  his  food  was  simple,  and  his 
frugality  enabled  him  to  give  to  the  poor.  His  pe- 
culiar habits  of  life  caused  his  family,  who  were 
worldly,  to  forsake  him ;  and,  even  when  sick,  they 
never  came  near  him.  Notwithstanding  his  singular 
devotedness  of  life,  he  suffered,  for  five  years,  "  a  state 
of  darkness,"  having  no  sense  of  the  love  of  God ;  to 
such  an  extent,  indeed,  that  he  began  to  doubt  whether 
there  was  a  God  at  all.  It  was  at  this  time  he  sang 
these  sad  lines  :  — 

Lost  in  darkness,  girt  with  dangers,  round  me  strangers, 

Through  an  alien  land  I  roam  ; 
Outward  trials,  bitter  losses,  inward  crosses, 
Lord,  Thou  know'st  have  sought  me  home. 
Sin  of  courage  hath  bereft  me,  and  hath  left  me 

Scarce  a  spark  of  faith  or  hope  ; 
Bitter  tears  my  heart  oft  sheddeth,  as  it  dreadeth 

I  am  past  Thy  mercy's  scope. 
Peace  I  cannot  find  ;  oh,  take  me.  Lord,  and  make  me 

From  this  yoke  of  evil  free  ; 
Calm  this  longing  never  sleeping,  still  my  weeping, 
Give  me  hope  once  more  in  Thee  ! 

He  could  obtain  no  help  from  outside ;  but  at  last, 
one  day,  when  he  was  on  a  journey  to  a  neighboring 
city,  he  received  such  an  internal  manifestation  of  the 
goodness  of  God,  and  the  sufficiency  of  the  Saviour, 
that  all  doubts  and  troubles  vanished  in  a  moment. 
Henceforth,  he  had  peace  and  joy,  and  an  intense 
power  of  realizing  the  unseen,  which,  combined  with 
the  experience  he  had  lately  gone  through,  gave  him 
a  wonderful  faculty  of  touching  and  strengthening 
other  hearts.  The  thirty  years  of  his  life,  from  thirty 
to  sixty  years  of  age,  were  spent  in  incessant  exertion 
for  the   good  of  others,  though  his   own  health  was 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS'   WAR.  l6l 

always  delicate,  and  he  was  subject  to  frequent  attacks 
of  neuralgia.  He  seems  to  have  possessed  a  singu- 
lar power  of  attracting  others,  and  he  used  it  to  the 
noblest  of  ends.  He  was  instrumental  of  great  good 
as  a  preacher,  and  as  a  minister  to  the  sick  and  desti- 
tute. He  was  a  mystic  of  the  purest  type ;  and  the 
fragrant  memory  of  his  name  is  still  enshrined  in 
some  hearts,  although  he  died  just  a  century  ago. 
Subjoined  are  two  more  extracts  from  his  fine 
hymns :  — 

Lord  our  God,  in  reverence  lowly 

The  hosts  of  heaven  call  Thee  "  Holy ! " 

From  cherubim  and  seraphim, 

From  angel-phalanx  far  extending, 

In  fuller  tones,  is  still  ascending 

The  "  holy,  holy,"  of  their  hymn. 

Lord,  there  are  bending  now  before  Thee 
The  elders,  with  their  crowned  glory, 
The  first-born  of  the  blessed  band  ; 
There,  too,  earth's  ransomed  and  forgiveu 
Brought  by  the  Saviour  safe  to  heaven, 
In  glad  unnumbered  myriads  stand. 
Loud  are  the  songs  of  praise 
Their  mingled  voices  raise, 

Ever,  ever ! 
We,  too,  are  Thine,  and  with  them  sing, 
Thou,  Lord,  and  only  Thou  art  King ! 

They  sing,  in  sweet  and  sinless  numbers. 
The  wondrous  love  that  never  slumbers. 
And  of  the  wisdom,  power,  and  might, 
The  truth  and  faithfulness  abiding. 
And  over  all  Thy  works  presiding. 
But  they  can  scarcely  praise  aright ; 
For  all  is  never  sung. 
Even  by  seraph's  tongue, 
Never,  never ! 


l62  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

These  are  the  closing  stanzas  of  his  "  Pilgrim 
Song :"  — 

Come,  gladly  let  us  onward  ;  hand  in  hand  still  go, 
Each  helping  one  another  through  all  the  way  below. 

One  family  of  love, 
Oh,  let  no  voice  of  strife  be  heard, 
No  discord,  by  the  angel-guard 
Who  watch  us  from  above  ! 

Oh,  brothers  !  soon  is  ended  the  journey  we've  begun : 
Endure  a  little  longer,  the  race  will  soon  be  won  1 

And  in  the  land  of  rest. 
In  yonder  bright,  eternal  home, 
Where  all  the  Father's  loved  ones  come, 

We  shall  be  safe  and  blest ! 

The  following  lines  are  from  the  German  of  Uhland, 
by  Mrs.  Follen  :  — 

This  is  the  Sabbath  day  ! 
In  the  wide  field  I  am  alone. 
Hark  !  now  our  morning  bell's  sweet  tone  : 

Now  it  has  died  away. 

Kneeling,  I  worship  Thee  : 
Sweet  dread  doth  o'er  my  spirit  steal 
From  whispering  sounds  of  those  who  kneel 

Unseen,  to  pray  with  me. 

Around  and  far  away 
So  clear  and  solemn  is  the  sky, 
It  seems  all  opening  to  my  eye : 

This  is  the  Sabbath  day  ! 

Longfellow  gives  us  the  following  fine  poem  in  his 
"  Hyperion."  It  is  a  translation  from  the  German  of 
Uhland. 

Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave 

Since  I  crossed  this  restless  wave  ; 

And  the  evening,  fair  as  ever. 

Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 


GERMAN. THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  163 

Then  in  this  same  boat,  beside, 

Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried ; 

One  with  all  a  father's  truth, 

One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought, 

And  his  grave  in  silence  sought ; 

But  the  younger,  brighter  form. 

Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

So,  where'er  I  turn  my  eye 

Back  upon  the  days  gone  by, 

Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  me,  — 

Friends  who  closed  their  course  before  me. 

Yet  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend. 

But  that  soul  to  soul  can  blend  ? 

Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore ; 

Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more  ! 

Take,  O  boatman  !  thrice  thy  fee  ; 

Take,  —  I  give  it  willingly ; 

For,  invisible  to  thee, 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me. 

A  3^et  finer  hymn  of  this  distinguished  German  poet 
is  before  us.     The  translation  reads,  — 

There  is  a  land  where  beauty  will  not  fade, 

Nor  sorrow  dim  the  eye  ; 
Where  true  hearts  will  not  sink,  nor  be  dismayed, 

And  love  will  never  die. 
Tell  me,  —  I  fain  would  go,  — 
For  I  am  burdened  with  a  heavy  woe : 
The  beautiful  have  left  me  all  alone,  — 
The  true,  the  tender,  from  my  path  have  gone, 
And  I  am  weak,  and  fainting  with  despair ; 
Where  is  it,  —  tell  me  where  ? 
Friend,  thou  must  trust  in  Him  who  trod  before 

The  desolate  path  of  life  ; 
Must  bear  in  meekness,  as  He  meekly  bore, 

Sorrow  and  toil  and  strife  ! 
Think  how  the  Son  of  God 
These  thorny  paths  has  trod, 


164  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Yet  tarried  out  for  thee  the  appointed  woe ; 

Think  of  His  loneliness  in  places  dim, 

When  no  man  comforted,  or  cared  for  Him ; 

Think  how  He  prayed,  unaided  and  alone, 

In  that  dread  agony,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !  " 

Friend,  do  not  thou  despair : 

Christ,  in  His  heaven  of  heavens,  will  hear  thy  prayer. 

Rambach  (1720)  is  the  writer  of  the  vigorous  hymn, 
of  which  this  is  a  translation  :  — 

O  Mighty  Spirit,  Source  whence  all  things  sprung ! 

O  glorious  Majesty  of  perfect  Light ! 
Hath  ever  worthy  praise  to  Thee  been  sung, 
Or  mortal  heart  endured  to  meet  Thy  sight  ? 
If  they  who  sin  have  never  known, 
Must  veil  their  faces  at  Thy  throne. 
Oh,  how  shall  I,  who  am  but  sin  and  dust, 
Approach  untrembling  to  the  Pure  and  Just  ? 
The  voice  of  conscience  in  the  soul  hath  shown 

Some  far-off  glimpses  of  Thy  holiness, 
And  yet  more  clearly  hast  Thou  made  it  known 
In  Thy  dear  Word  that  tells  us  of  Thy  grace ; 
But  with  all-glorious  light  divine 
In  His  face  we  behold  it  shine,  — 
The  Sinless  One,  who  this  dark  earth  has  trod. 
To  win,  through  sorrow,  sinners  back  to  God. 

Here  is  Korner's  battle-hymn,  written  just  before 
he  yielded  up  his  young  life  for  the  freedom  of  his 
country,  at  the  battle  of  Danneberg,  1791  :  — 

Father,  to  Thee  I  cry  ! 
The  roaring  cannon's  vapor  shrouds  me  round, 
And  flashing  lightnings  hiss  along  the  ground ; 

Lord  of  the  fight,  I  cry  to  Thee  ! 

O  Father,  guide  Thou  me  ! 

Father,  be  Thou  my  guide  ! 
In  victory's  triumph,  or  in  death  laid  low, 
O  Lord,  unto  Thy  mighty  will  I  bow  ! 

Even  as  Thou  wilt,  so  let  it  be  ! 

God,  I  acknowledge  Thee  ! 


GERMAN.  THIRTY    YEARS'   WAR.  l6$ 

Thy  holy  presence,  Lord, 
In  the  dread  thunder  of  the  clashing  steel, 
As  in  the  rustling  autumn-leaves,  I  feel : 

Fountain  of  mercies,  I  acknowledge  Thee  ! 

O  Father,  bless  Thou  me  ! 

Thy  blessing  on  me  rest ! 
Into  Thy  hands,  O  Father,  I  resign 
The  life  Thou  gavest,  and  canst  take,  but  mine 

In  life  or  death  Thy  blessing  be  ! 

Glory  and  praise  to  Thee  ! 

Germany's  first  patriot  and  poet,  Korner,  was  in 
the  act  of  reading  to  a  friend  his  last  poem,  "The 
Sword  Song,"  when  the  signal  for  the  attack  was 
made.  His  career,  although  so  brief,  was  a  noble  in- 
stance of  self-sacrifice.  Korner  was  among  the  fore- 
most of  those  who  pressed  forward  in  pursuit  of  the 
enemy;  and  here  it  was  that,  in  the  moment  of  vic- 
tory, he  met  the  death  which  he  had  so  often  antici- 
pated, and  celebrated  with  so  much  enthusiasm.  Mrs. 
Hemans's  stirring  tribute  to  his  memory  has  been 
translated  into  German,  by  Korner's  father.  Her  dirge 
begins :  — 

A  song  for  the  death-day  of  the  brave,  — 

A  song  of  pride  ! 
The  youth  went  down  to  a  hero's  grave, 

With  the  sword,  his  bride ! 

He  hath  left  a  voice  in  his  trumpet-lays 

To  turn  the  flight ; 
And  a  guiding  spirit  for  after  days, 

Like  a  watchfire's  light ! 

And  a  name  and  a  fame  above  the  blight 

Of  earthly  breath ; 
Beautiful  —  beautiful  and  bright  — 

In  life  and  death. 


l66  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Klopstock,  "the  German  Homer,"  was  born  in  1724, 
and  died  in  1803.  At  the  early  age  of  sixteen,  he 
seems  to  have  projected  his  epic ;  and  he  wrote  the 
first  canto  of  his  "Messiah"  at  Jena.  When  the  first 
three  cantos  were  published,  they  attracted  much  ap  , 
plause.  He  completed  the  poem  in  1792,  at  Ham 
burg.  Klopstock  seems  to  have  been  a  very  amiable 
and  excellent  character.  He  was  twice  married,  and 
happy  in  his  unions.  Menzel,  the  German  critic, 
justly  remarks :  "  His  poetry  as  well  as  his  patriotism 
had  its  root  in  that  sublime  moral  and  religious  faith 
which  his  'Messiah'  celebrates  ;  "  and  he  it  was  who, 
along  with  Gellert,  lent  to  modern  German  poetry  that 
dignified,  earnest,  and  pious  character,  which  it  has 
never  lost  again. 

Here  is  Klopstock's  "Morgenlied"  (morning-hymn), 
translated  by  Nind  :  — 

When  I  rise  again  to  life  from  the  tranquil  sleep  of  death, 
And,  released  from  earthly  strife,  breathe  that  morning's  balmy 
breath, 

I  shall  wake  to  other  thought : 

The  race  is  run,  the  fight  is  fought ; 

All  the  pilgrim's  cares  are  dreams, 

When  that  dawn  of  morning  gleams  ! 

Help,  that  no  departed  day,  God  of  endless  life  and  joy, 

To  the  righteous  Judge  may  say,  'twas  profaned  by  my  employ: 

To  another  morn  I  wake, 

And  to  Thee  my  offering  make  ; 

Oh,  may  all  my  days  that  flee, 

Joys  and  sorrows,  lead  to  Thee  ! 

Goethe,  who  has  been  styled  the  "Shakspeare  ol 
Germany,"  has  written  in  almost  every  department  and 
in  many  of  the  sciences.  His  works  have  exerted  a 
great  influence  over  the  national  mind  of  Germany, 


GERMAN.  THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  167 

and  indeed  of  the  world  at  large.  He  received  many 
distinguished  honors  from  the  Emperor  of  Russia,  the 
great  Napoleon,  and  other  notabilities.  His  famous 
life  closed  upon  earth  in  1832. 

Here  is  a  fine  paraphrase  of  Goethe's  magnificent 
"  Hymn  to  the  Universe,"  which  forms  the  prelude  to 
his  "Faust:"  — 

Roll  on,  thou  sun,  for  ever  roll, 

Thou  giant,  rushing  through  the  heaven  ! 
Creation's  wonder,  nature's  soul ! 

Thy  golden  wheels,  by  angels  driven  ; 
The  planets  die  without  thy  blaze, 

And  cherubim,  with  star-dropt  wing, 
Float  in  thy  diamond-sparkling  rays. 

Thou  brightest  emblem  of  their  King ! 
Roll,  lovely  earth  !  and  still  roll  on. 

With  ocean's  azure  beauty  bound  ; 
While  one  sweet  star,  the  pearly  moon, 

Pursues  thee  through  the  blue  profound ; 
And  angels,  with  delighted  eyes. 

Behold  thy  tints  of  mount  and  stream, 
From  the  high  walls  of  paradise, 

Swift-wheeling  like  a  glorious  dream. 
Roll,  planets  !  on  your  dazzling  road, 

For  ever  sweeping  round  the  sun  ; 
What  eye  beheld  when  first  ye  glowed  ! 

What  eye  shall  see  your  courses  done  ! 
Roll  in  your  solemn  majesty. 

Ye  deathless  splendors  of  the  skies  ! 
High  altars,  from  which  angels  see 

The  incense  of  creation  rise. 
Roll,  comets  !  and  ye  million  stars  ! 

Ye  that  through  boundless  nature  roam  ; 
Ye  monarchs  on  your  flame-wing  cars  ; 

Tell  us  in  what  more  glorious  dome, — 
What  orb  to  which  your  pomps  are  dim, 

What  kingdom  but  by  angels  trod,  — 
Tell  us,  where  swells  the  eternal  hymn 

Around  His  throne,  where  dwells  your  God  ? 


t68         evenings  with  the  sacred  poets. 

These  forceful  lines  are  from  the  same  distinguished 
source : — 

Rest  is  not  quitting  the  busy  career  ; 

Rest  is  the  fitting  of  self  to  its  sphere. 

'Tis  the  brook's  motion,  clear  without  strife, 

Fleeting  to  ocean,  after  its  life. 

'Tis  loving  and  serving  the  highest  and  best: 

'Tis  onward  and  upward,  and  that  is  true  rest. 

We  are  indebted  to  Professor  Porter,  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, for  the  beautiful  translation  of  one  of  the  most 
renowned  sacred  poems  of  Germany,  by  Mrs.  Meta 
Heusser-Schweizer,  who  lives  at  Hirzel,  near  Zurich. 
Professor  SchafT  pronounces  the  first  stanza  truly 
classical  in  thought  and  expression :  its  contrasts  are 
startling  and  sublime. 

Lamb,  the  once  crucified  !  Lion,  by  triumph  surrounded  ! 
Victim  all  bloody,  and  Hero,  who  hell  hast  confounded ! 

Pain-riven  Heart, 

That  from  earth's  deadliest  smart 
O'er  all  the  heavens  hast  bounded  ! 

Thou  in  the  depths  wert  to  mortals  the  highest  revealing, 
God  in  humanity  veiled,  Thy  full  glory  concealing  ! 

"  Worthy  art  Thou  !  " 

Shouteth  eternity  now, 
Praise  to  Thee  endlessly  peaHng. 

Heavenly  Love,  in  the  language  of  earth  past  expression  ! 
Lord  of  all  worlds,  unto  whom  every  tongue  owes  confession ! 

Didst  Thou  not  go, 

And,  under  sentence  of  woe. 
Rescue  the  doomed  by  transgression  ! 

O'er  the  abyss  of  the  grave,  and  its  horrors  infernal, 
Victory's  palm  Thou  art  waving  in  triumph  supernal ; 

Who  to  Thee  cling, 

Circled  by  hope,  shall  now  bring 
Out  of  its  gulf  life  eternal ! 


GERMAN.  THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  1 69 

Among  the  German  poets  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
Novalis  was  one  of  the  most  noted.  His  brief  life- 
story  is  remarkable,  but  we  have  not  space  for  its 
recital.     Here  are  two  of  his  hymns  :  — 

There  are  dark  hours  of  sadness,  dark  hours  of  hopeless  pain, 
When  thoughts  akin  to  madness  flash  wildly  through  the  brain ; 
When  nameless  anguish  presses  the  heart  beyond  control, 
And  deepest  gloom  possesses  the  faint  and  trembhng  soul ; 
When  every  prop  seems  taken  from  Hfe's  receding  shore, 
And  the  mind,  tempest-shaken,  obeys  the  will  no  more. 
But  who,  from  yonder  heaven,  pities  each  earthly  woe  ? 
Who  yonder  cross  hath  given  for  every  grief  below  ? 
Thine  arms  around  it  twining,  to  hope  and  prayer  give  room, 
For  there  a  flame  is  shining  to  light  thy  path  of  gloom. 
An  angel-form  advances,  and  leads  thee  to  that  strand 
Whence  thy  delighted  glances  may  see  the  promised  land. 

EASTER   HYMN. 

I  say  to  all  men,  far  and  near,  that  He  is  risen  again ; 
That  He  is  with  us  now  and  here,  and  ever  shall  remain. 
And  what  I  say,  let  each,  this  morn,  go  tell  it  to  his  friend. 
That  soon,  in  every  place,  shall  dawn  His  kingdom  without  end. 
Now  first  to  souls  who  thus  awake,  seems  earth  a  fatherland ; 
A  new  and  endless  life  they  take  with  rapture  from  His  hand. 
The  fear  of  death  and  of  the  grave  are  whelmed  beneath  the  sea ; 
And  every  heart,  now  light  and  brave,  may  face  the  things  to  be. 

Spitta's  Morning  Prayer  opens  thus  beautifully  :  — 

The  golden  morn  flames  up  the  eastern  sky, 
And  what  dark  night  had  hid  from  every  eye 

All-piercing  daylight  summons  clear  to  view  ; 
And  all  the  forests,  vale  or  plain  or  hill. 
That  slept  in  mist  enshrouded,  dark  and  still, 

In  gladsome  light  are  glittering  now  anew. 
Shine  in  my  heart,  and  bring  me  joy  and  light. 
Sun  of  my  darkened  soul ;  dispel  its  night, 

And  shed  in  it  the  truthful  day  abroad ; 
And  all  the  many  gloomy  folds  lay  bare 
Within  this  heart,  that  fain  would  learn  to  wear 

The  pure  and  glorious  likeness  of  its  Lord  ; 


170  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Glad  with  Thy  light,  and  glowing  with  Thy  love, 
So  let  me  ever  speak  and  think  and  move, 

As  fits  a  soul  new-touched  with  life  from  heaven, 
That  seeks  but  so  to  order  all  her  course, 
As  most  to  show  the  glory  of  that  Source, 

By  whom  alone  her  strength,  her  life,  are  given. 

This  also  is  from  his  pen  :  — 

How  weary  and  how  worthless  this  life  at  times  appears ! 
What  days  of  heavy  musings,  what  hours  of  bitter  tears  ! 
How  dark  the  storm-clouds  gather  along  the  wintry  skies  ! 
How  desolate  and  cheerless  the  path  before  us  lies ! 
And  yet  these  days  of  dreariness  are  sent  us  from  above ; 
They  do  not  come  in  anger,  but  in  faithfulness  and  love : 
They  come  to  teach  us  lessons,  which  bright  ones  could  not  jneld ; 
And  to  leave  us  blest  and  thankful,  when  their  purpose  is  fulfilled. 

They  come  to  break  the  fetters  which  here  detain  us  fast. 
And  force  our  long-reluctant  hearts  to  rise  to  heaven  at  last ; 
And  brighten  every  prospect  of  that  eternal  home, 
Where  grief  and  disappointment  and  fear  can  never  come  ! 
Then  turn  not  in  despondence,  poor,  weary  heart,  away, 
But  meekly  journey  onwards,  through  the  dark  and  cloudy  day: 
Even  now  the  bow  of  promise  is  above  thee,  painted  bright ; 
And  soon  a  joyful  morning  shall  dissipate  the  night !  * 

Spitta  has  portrayed  a  delightful  domestic  scene : 

O  happy  house !  where  two  are  one  in  heart, 

In  faith  and  hope  are  one  ; 
Whom  death  only  for  a  while  may  part, 

Not  end  the  union  here  begun ; 
Who  share  together  one  salvation, — 

Who  would  be  with  Thee,  Lord,  always, 
In  gladness  or  in  tribulation, 

In  happy  or  in  evil  days. 

O  happy  home !  and  happy  servitude  f 

Where  all  alike  one  Master  own  ; 
Where  daily  duty,  in  Thy  strength  pursued, 

Is  never  hard  nor  toilsome  known  ; 

•  Hymns  from  the  Land  of  Luther. 


GERMAN.  THIRTY    YEARS     WAR  171 

Where  each  one  serves  Thee,  meek  and  lowly, 

Whatever  Thine  appointment  be, 
Till  common  tasks  seem  great  and  holy, 

When  they  are  done  as  unto  Thee ! 

He  has  written  another  sweet  lyric,  entitled  "  The 
Angel  of  Hope."     Here  are  the  opening  stanzas:  — 

A  gentle  Angel  walketh  throughout  a  world  of  woe. 
With  messages  of  mercy  to  mourning  hearts  below  ; 
His  peaceful  smile  invites  thee  to  love  and  to  confide  : 
Oh,  follow  in  His  footsteps,  keep  closely  by  His  side. 
So  gently  will  He  lead  thee  through  all  the  cloudy  day. 
And  whisper  of  glad  tidings  to  cheer  the  pilgrim-way ; 
His  courage  never  failing,  when  thine  is  almost  gone. 
He  takes  thy  heavy  burden,  and  helps  thee  bear  it  on. 

F.  Riickert,  who  died  in  1867,  "one  of  the  greatest 
and  purest  of  German  poets,"  wrote  a  lyric  of  rare 
beauty, — "Er  ist  in  Bethlehem  geboren."  We  give 
two  or  three  of  the  beautiful  stanzas  of  Professor 
Porter's  translation :  — 

Where  are  the  seven  works  of  wonder 

The  ancient  world  beheld  with  pride  ? 
They  all  have  fallen,  sinking  under 

The  splendor  of  the  Crucified ! 
I  saw  them,  as  I  wandered  spying, 
Amid  their  ruins  crumbled,  lying: 

None  stand  in  quiet  gloria. 

Like  Bethlehem  and  Golgotha. 

O  Thou  who,  in  a  manger  lying, 

Wert  willing  to  be  born  a  child. 
And  on  the  cross,  in  anguish  dying, 

The  world  to  God  hast  reconciled  ! 
To  pride,  how  mean  Thy  lowly  manger ! 
How  infamous  Thy  cross  !  yet  stranger  — 

Humility  became  the  law 

At  Bethlehem  and  Golgotha. 


172  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

With  staff  and  hat,  the  scallop  wearing, 

The  far-off  East  I  journeyed  through  ; 
And  homeward  now,  a  pilgrim  bearing 

This  message,  I  have  come  to  you : 
Go  not,  with  hat  and  staff,  to  wander 
Beside  God's  grave  and  cradle  yonder ; 

Look  inward,  and  behold,  with  awe, 

His  Bethlehem  and  Golgotha. 

0  heart !  what  profits  all  thy  kneeling, 
Where  once  He  laid  His  infant  head 

To  view,  with  an  enraptured  feeling. 
His  grave,  long  empty  of  its  dead  ? 

To  have  Him  born  in  thee  with  power, 

To  die  to  earth  and  sin  each  hour. 
And  live  to  Him,  —  this  only,  ah ! 
Is  Bethlehem  and  Golgotha ! 

Our  last  quotation  shall  be  that  grand  choral,  the 
favorite  of  Prince  Albert,  which  he  set  to  music,  and 
which  was  sung  at  his  funeral  obsequies  :  — 

1  shall  not  in  the  grave  remain. 

Since  Thou  death's  bonds  hast  severed ; 
By  hope  with  Thee  to  rise  again. 

From  fear  of  death  delivered. 
I'll  come  to  Thee  where'er  Thou  art, 
Live  with  Thee,  from  Thee  never  part : 

Therefore  to  die  is  rapture ! 

And  so  to  Jesus  Christ  I'll  go, 

My  longing  arms  extending ; 
So  fall  asleep  in  slumber  deep,  — 

Slumber  that  knows  no  ending,  - 
Till  Jesus  Christ,  God's  only  Son, 
Open  the  gates  of  bliss,  —  leads  on 

To  heaven,  to  life  eternal ! 

Our  selections  from  German  hymnology  have  been 
necessarily  very  limited,  —  scarcely  sufficient  to  afford 
even  an  approximate  conception  of  its  great  wealth. 


GERMAN.  THIRTY    YEARs'    WAR.  173 

In  dismissing  this  department  of  sacred  song,  we  are 
impressed  with  one  characteristic  defect  common  to 
most  of  these  compositions ;  i.e.,  their  prolixity.  Yet 
there  is  in  them  much  of  the  true  poetic  element,  which 
is  not  to  be  ignored.  These  hymns  are  especially  in- 
teresting to  us,  not  only  as  exhibiting  pictures  of  heroic 
faith  under  circumstances  of  peculiar  emergency  and 
trial ;  but  also  as  illustrative  of  the  habits  of  thought 
and  the  mental  idiosyncrasies  of  the  people  they  repre- 
sent. Germany  sang  the  great  pasan  of  the  Refor- 
mation, and,  during  her  great  baptism  of  blood,  the 
songs  of  the  conflict  and  triumph  of  Light  and  Lib- 
erty over  Darkness  and  Despotism. 


FIFTH   EVENING. 


SWEDISH,   FRENCH,   SPANISH,   &c. 


FIFTH     EVENING. 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,   &c. 

"DEFORE  commencing  the  researches  assigned  for 
■^"^  our  present  evening's  studious  entertainment,  the 
following  little  legend,  concerning  a  German  hymn, 
claims  our  attention. 

In  one  of  the  most  obscure  streets  of  Hamburg, 
some  two  years  after  the  thirty  years'  war,  lived  a 
poor  young  man,  who  obtained  a  slender  and  preca- 
rious subsistence  by  means  of  his  violoncello.  After 
a  while  he  fell  sick,  and  he  was  unable  to  continue  his 
musical  routine.  As  this  was  his  only  means  of  sup- 
port, he  was,  in  the  emergency,  compelled  to  part 
with  his  violin  to  a  Jew,  who,  with  characteristic 
manoeuvring,  and  much  pretended  reluctance,  at 
length  loaned  him  a  sum  much  below  its  value,  for 
two  weeks;  when,  if  not  redeemed,  the  instrument 
was  to  be  forfeited.  As  he  surrendered  his  violin, 
he  gazed  lovingly  at  it,  through  his  tears ;  and  asked 
the  Jew  if  he  might  play  one  more  tune  upon  it. 
"You  know  not  how  hard  it  is  to  part  from  that 
violin,"  he  said;  "for  ten  years,  it  has  been  my  com- 
panion and  comforter.  If  I  have  nothing  else,  I  have 
had  it;  at  the  worst,  it  spoke  to  me,  and  sung  back 


178  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

all  my  courage  and  hope.  Of  all  the  sad  hearts  that 
have  left  your  door,  there  has  been  none  so  sad  as 
mine."  His  voice  grew  thick;  and,  pausing  for  a 
moment,  he  seized  the  instrument,  and  commenced 
a  tune  so  exquisitely  soft,  that  even  the  reluctant  Jew 
listened  in  spite  of  himself.  A  few  more  strains,  and 
he  sang  to  his  own  melody  two  stanzas  of  his  hymn, 
"Life  is  weary,  —  Saviour,  take  me  !  "  Suddenly  the 
key  changed :  a  few  bars,  and  the  melody  poured 
itself  out  anew,  and  his  face  lighted  up  with  a  smile, 
as  he  sang,  "Yet  who  knows?  the  Cross  is  precious  ! " 
He  laid  down  the  instrument,  murmuring,  "Ut  fiat 
divina  voluntas,"  *  and  rushed  from  the  place. 

Going  out  into  the  darkness,  he  stumbled  against  a 
person,  who  seemed  to  have  been  listening  at  the 
door.  "Could  you  tell  me  where  I  could  obtain  a 
copy  of  that  song,"  said  he  to  the  musician  :  "  I  would 
willingly  give  a  florin  for  it."  "My  good  friend,  I 
will  cheerfully  fulfil  your  wish  without  the  florin,"  was 
the  response. 

But  it  is  time  the  parties  were  introduced  to  the 
reader.  The  name  of  the  musician  was  George  Neu- 
mark,  and  that  of  his  interlocutor  John  Gutig,  who 
was  valet  to  the  Swedish  ambassador.  Baron  von 
Rosenkranz.  Gutig  told  the  baron  the  story  of  the 
hapless  musician  :  his  poverty,  his  musical  skill,  his 
beautiful  hymns,  and  his  grief  at  pledging  his  instru- 
ment;  he  showed  the  hymn  he  had  given  him,  also. 
As  the  baron  was  in  need  of  a  secretary,  he  thought 
so  highly  of  the  poor  musician,  that  he  forthwith  sent 
for  him,  and  he  was  at  once  installed  into  that  office. 
George  Neumark's  next  step  was  to  reclaim  his  loved 

*  As  God  will,  I  am  still. 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  1 79 

violoncello ;  and,  on  obtaining  it,  he  called  on  his 
landlady,  who  took  a  deep  sympathy  in  his  tribula- 
tions. In  a  few  minutes  the  room  was  crowded  with 
friends  and  neighbors,  eager  to  hear  him  again  play 
upon  his  instrument ;  and  he  sang  to  them  an  excel- 
lent sermon,  in  this  wise,  his  own  sweet  hymn  :  "  Wer 
nur  den  lieben  Gott  lasst  walten." 

Leave  God  to  order  all  thy  ways, 
And  hope  in  Him,  whate'er  betide  ; 

Thou'lt  find  Him,  in  the  evil  days, 

Thine  all-sufficient  strength  and  guide. 

Who  trusts  in  God's  unchanging  love, 

Builds  on  the  rock  that  naught  can  move  ! 

This  was  his  thanksgiving  tribute  for  the  good  Prov- 
idence which  had  rescued  him  from  trial  in  his  great 
emergency.  After  two  years,  the  baron  procured  for 
him  the  post  of  Librarian  of  the  Archives  at  Weimar, 
which  office  he  held,  with  honor,  until  the  close  of  his 
life. 

This  is  not  a  mere  monkish  legend,  but  a  truthful 
and  instructive  incident  of  real  life ;  for  this  George 
Neumark  was  born  at  Thuringen  in  162 1.  He  studied 
law  at  the  University  of  Konigsberg,  when  Simon 
Dach  was  president;  and,  like  him,  Neumark  became 
both  poet  and  musician.  But,  being  poor  and  friend- 
less, after  enduring  much  privation  in  his  native  place, 
he  removed  to  Hamburg,  in  1650,  in  hopes  of  better 
fortune,  and  it  was  here  we  met  with  him.  Need  we 
point  the  moral  suggested?  It  is  the  beauty  of  a  life 
of  persevering  integrity,  humility,  and  devout  trust  in 
God.  For,  when  asked  if  he  made  the  hymn  himself, 
he  modestly  replied:  "Well,  yes:  I  am  the  instru- 
ment, but  God  swept  the  strings.     All   I   knew  was 


I  So  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

that  these  words,  'Who  trusts  in  God's  unchanging 
love,'  lay  like  a  soft  burden  on  my  heart.  I  went 
over  them  again  and  again,  and  so  they  shaped  them- 
sehes  into  this  song;  how,  I  cannot  tell.  I  began  to 
sing  and  to  pray  for  joy,  and  my  soul  blessed  the 
Lord ;  and  word  followed  word,  like  water  from  a 
fountain." 

Christianity,  in  Sweden,  dates  its  rise  in  the  ninth 
century.  Anschar,  the  "Apostle  of  the  North,"  who 
waged  successful  war  against  the  old  Scandinavian 
paganism,  died  in  the  year  of  grace,  835. 

"  Long  after  the  southern  regions  of  modern  Europe 
emerge  into  the  sober  daylight  of  history,  the  twi- 
light of  legend  lingei's  over  the  north.  The  gigantic 
forms  of  the  old  Sagas  flit  about  in  the  gleam  of  the 
northern  lights,  ages  after  the  chronicles  of  the  south 
are  peopled  with  a  race  of  solid  and  ordinary  men 
and  women.  Four  centuries  after  the  times  when 
the  people  of  Milan  first  sang  the  hymns  of  Am- 
brose ;  nearly  three  centuries  after  Gregory  the 
Great  sent  Augustine  to  the  English ;  a  hundred 
years  after  the  Venerable  Bede  passed  his  tranquil 
life  in  the  monastery  near  Wearmouth,  translating 
the  New  Testament  into  Anglo-Saxon,  and  chroni- 
cling his  own  times,  — in  Sweden,  Christianity  was 
carrying  on  its  first  conflict  with  heathenism."* 

It  was  not,  however,  until  seven  centuries  later,  that 
its  light  streamed  into  those  northern  regions,  and 
warmed  the  hearts  of  that  rock-bound  people  by  the 
recital  of  the  story  of  the  Cross.  The  Moravian  mis- 
sionaries labored  with  the  Greenlanders  in  vain,  until 
they  rehearsed  that  all-potent  theme.     Like  the  action 

•  Mrs.  Charles. 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  l8l 

of  the  solar  rays  on  the  frozen  seas,  they  soon  found 
that  the  Cross  of  Calvary  has  power  to  melt  the  heart, 
although  as  cold  and  hard  by  nature  as  their  own  ice- 
bound coast.  The  Bible  and  the  German  Lutheran 
hymn-book  were  translated  into  the  Swedish  language  ; 
and  soon  the  reception  of  the  gospel  awoke  the  voice 
of  sonfj  amonor  them  also. 

Gustavus  Adolphus  was  a  Swede, — nay,  more,  a 
self-sacrificing  Christian  hero ;  for,  if  ever  a  man 
subordinated  self  to  the  interests  of  a  noble  cause, 
it  surely  was  Gustavus,  and  he  it  was  who  really 
rescued  Germany  from  the  yoke  of  spiritual  des- 
potism. 

Spegel,  Archbishop  of  Upsala,  wrote  a  paraphrase 
on  part  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  of  which  the 
following  stanzas  form  part  of  an  English  version,  by 
Mrs.  Charles.  He  was  born,  a.d.  1645,  and  died 
1714;  was  contemporary  with  Paul  Gerhardt,  and, 
like  him,  a  great  hymn-writer.  He  accomplished 
much  good  for  Sweden. 

We  Christians  should  steadfastly  ponder 
What  Christ  hath  so  graciously  taught ; 

For  He,  who  would  have  us  His  freemen, 
Would  see  us  retain  in  our  thought 

How  little  things  earthly  are  worth, 

Lest  those  who  heap  treasures  on  earth, 
The  heavenly  prize  leave  unsought. 

All  nature  a  sermon  may  preach  thee  ; 

The  birds  sing  thy  murmurs  away,  — 
The  birds,  which,  nor  sowing  nor  reaping, 

God  fails  not  to  feed  day  by  day ; 
And  He,  who  these  creatures  doth  cherish. 
Will  He  fail  thee,  and  leave  thee  to  perish? 

Or  art  thou  not  better  than  they  ? 


l82  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

The  lilies,  nor  toiling  nor  spinning, 
Their  clothing,  how  gorgeous  and  fair  ! 

What  tints  in  their  tiny  robes  woven, 
What  wondrous  devices  are  there  ! 

All  Solomon's  stores  could  not  render 

One  festival  robe  of  such  splendor 

As  the  flowers  have  for  every-day  wear. 

God  gives  to  each  flower  its  rich  raiment. 
And  o'er  them  His  treasures  flings  free, 

Which  to-day  linds  so  fragrant  in  beauty, 
And  to-morrow  all  faded  shall  see. 

Thus  the  lilies  smile  shame  on  thy  care, 

find  the  happy  birds  sing  it  to  air: 
Will  their  God  be  forgetful  of  thee  ? 

From  the  same  source,*  we  derive  another  beauti- 
ful translation  from  the  Swedish  of  Bishop  Franzin, 
who  died  a.d.  i8i8. 

Jesus  in  thy  memory  keep, 

Wouldst  thou  be  God's  child  and  friend  ; 
Jesus  in  thy  heart  shrined  deep, 
Still  thy  gaze  on  Jesus  bend. 
Iii  thy  toiling,  in  thy  resting,  look  to  Him  with  every  breath, 
Look  to  Jesus'  life  and  death. 

Look  to  Jesus,  till  reviving 

Faith  and  love  thy  life-springs  swell; 
Strength  for  all  things  good  deriving 

From  Him  who  did  all  things  well ; 
Work,  as  He  did,  in  thy  season,  works  which  shall  not  fade  away : 

Work  while  it  is  called  to-day. 

Look  to  Jesus,  prayerful,  waking, 

When  thy  feet  on  roses  tread ; 
Follow,  worldly  pomp  forsaking, 

With  thy  cross,  where  He  hath  led ; 
Look  to  Jesus  in  temptation  ;  baffled  shall  the  tempter  flee. 

And  God's  anj.els  come  to  thee. 

*  Chiistian  Life  in  Song. 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  183 

Look  to  Jesus,  when  dark  lowering 

Perils  thy  horizon  dim, 
By  that  band  in  terror  cowering, 

Calm  'midst  tempests,  look  on  Him. 
Trust  in  Him,  who  still  rebuketh  wind  and  billow,  fire  and  flood; 

Forward,  brave  by  trusting  God ! 

King  Oscar,  of  Sweden,  one  of  the  most  accom- 
plished monarchs  of  Europe,  was  a  poet.  Mary 
Howitt's  translation  of  one  of  his  striking  poems,  en- 
tided  the  "  Heart's  Home,"  is  subjoined  :  — 

Where  is  thy  home  ?     Thus  to  my  heart  appealing 
I  spake.     Say  thou,  who  hast  had  part 
In  all  my  inmost  being's  deepest  feeling. 
Where  is  thy  proper  home  ?     Tell  me,  my  heart ! 
Is  it  where  peaceful  groves  invite  to  leisure. 
And  silvery  brooklets  lapse  in  easy  measure  ? 
No,  no,  my  heart  responded,  No  ! 

Where  is  thy  home  ?     Perchance,  where  tropic  splendor, 
In  golden  luxury  of  light,  calls  forth 
The  purple  grape  ;  perchance,  'midst  roses  tender, 
Thou  revellest  in  the  beauty  of  the  South. 
Is  that  thy  home,  beneath  the  palm-tree  shadows  ? 
And  ever-verdant  summer's  flowery  meadows, 
Still,  still  my  heart  made  answer,  No  1 

Where  is  thy  home  ?     Is  it  'mid  icebergs  hoary. 
The  crags  and  snow-fields  of  the  Arctic  strand. 
Where  the  midsummer's  midnight  sees  the  glory 
Of  sunset  and  of  sunrise,  hand  in  hand, 
Where  'twixt  the  pine-trees  gleams  the  snow-drift's  whiteness, 
And  starry  night  flames  with  auroral  brightness  ? 
But  still  my  whispering  heart  said,  No  ! 

Where  is  thy  home  ?     Say,  if  perchance  it  lieth 
In  that  prefigured  land  of  love  and  light. 
Whither,  they  say,  the  soul  enfranchised  flieth, 
When  earthly  bonds  no  longer  check  her  flight  ? 


184  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Is  there  thy  home,  —  those  unknown  reahns  elysian, 
Which  shine  beyond  the  stars,  a  heavenly  vision  ? 

Then  first  my  heart  made  answer,  Yes  ! 
There  is  my  home,  it  said,  with  quick  emotion  ; 
My  primal  home,  to  which  I  am  akin. 
Though  earthly  fires  may  call  forth  my  devotion, 
Yet  I  forget  not  Heaven's  pure  flame  within. 
Amidst  the  ashes  still  a  spark  surviveth 
Which  ever  yearneth  heavenward,  ever  striveth 

To  be  with  God,  who  is  my  home  ! 

In  attempting  to  gather  up  the  sounds  of  the  never- 
ceasing  chorus,  we  shall  perceive  a  common  creed 
pervading  most  of  the  songs,  —  heart-echoes  are  they 
from  one  age  and  nation  to  another.  Tracing  to  their 
common  source  these  lyric-bursts  of  Christian  heroes 
and  saints  of  the  long-forgotten  past,  we  thus  come  into 
sympathy  with  the  music  of  their  souls,  and  may 
even  offer  our  worship  in  their  very  words.  Some 
morbid,  ascetic  Christians  there  are,  who  seem  to  be 
the  living  representatives  of  cloister,  cowl,  and  con 
vent ;  they  prefer  to  remain  voiceless,  while  the} 
dissipate  their  days,  which  should  be  dedicated  to 
thanksgiving  and  charity,  in  gloom  and  sadness. 
But  Christianity  is  the  patron  of  all  that  is  cheerful 
and  hope-inspiring,  while  its  native  language  is  that 
of  psalm  and  song.  If  "  light  is  sown  for  the  right- 
eous, and  gladness  for  the  upright  in  heart,"  surely  the 
Christian  should  gather  the  golden  harvest.  We  have 
already  referred  to  the  fact  that  Niebuhr's  great  mind 
solaced  itself,  amidst  its  intense  labors  and  researches, 
by  murmuring  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving,  or  some  such 
plaintive  appeal  as  the  following  :  — 

So  give  us  peace :  peace  in  the  church  and  school, 
Peace  to  the  powers  who  o'er  our  country  rule, 
Peace  to  the  conscience,  peace  within  the  heart, 
Do  Thou  impart. 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  1 85 

What  a  lesson  has  Luther  left  us,  of  bravery  and 
cheerful  trust,  and  love  of  song  ! 

Holland  —  whose  claim  to  the  invention  of  printing 
has  been  established,  which  is  the  home  of  classics, 
painters,  men  of  science,  —  such  names  as  Erasmus, 
Grotius,  Lipslus,  and  Boerhaave  —  has  also  had  her 
sons  of  song.  Here  is  a  neat  little  homily  in  verse, 
translated  from  the  Dutch  of  L.  van  Welthem  :  — 

Know  that  holiness  keeps  her  throne 
Not  in  cloisters  or  temples  alone  ; 
The  temple  where  she  loves  to  dwell 
Is  a  pure  spirit's  sacred  cell. 

Another  and  more  noted  poet  of  the  Netherlands 
was  Dirk  Rafael  Kamphuyzen,  who  was  born  in  1586, 
and  died  1626.  While  at  the  University  of  Leyden, 
he  received  instruction  from  the  renowned  Arminius, 
whose  doctrines  he  embraced.  He  wrote  a  "Para- 
phrase of  the  Psalms,"  and  a  collection  of  poems.  His 
religious  poetr}'  is  superior  to  any  which  preceded  it : 
there  is  in  it  a  pure  and  earnest  feeling  throughout, 
an  intense  conviction  of  truth.  His  "  May-Morning  " 
is  one  of  the  most  popular  productions  of  the  Dutch 
poets.  Here  are  two  or  three  of  its  fifteen  stanzas 
(Sir  John  Bowring's  translation)  :  — 

'Tis  May!  whose  fragrant  breath  and  dyes  so  far  o'er  earth  are 

gone, 
That  memory  all  her  charms  supplies,  ere  she  herself  comes  on. 
'Tis  May  !  the  loveliest  of  the  year,  who  with  fresh  beauty  glows  ; 
The  air  is  sweet,  the  sunbeams  clear,  the  wished-for  zephyr  blows. 
The  earth  with  varied  flowers  is  dight,  the  bees  with  honey  pass. 
The  larks  chirp  gaily,  and  alight  upon  the  new-born  grass. 

Joost  van  den  Vondel  (born  1587,  died  1679),  as  a 
poet,  has  never  been  rivalled  in  Holland.     His  trag- 


iSb  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

edies,  thirty-two  in  number,  are  perhaps  the  grandest 
in  Dutch  literature.  His  "  Lucifer "  has  been  often 
compared  to  Milton's  "  Paradise  Lost ; "  and  some  have 
supposed  it  might  have  suggested  the  latter.  Vondel's 
character  was  deeply  imbued  with  religious  enthusi- 
asm. From  the  Bible  he  took  almost  all  the  subjects 
of  his  tragedies.  He  was,  at  first,  eagerly  in  favor 
of  Arminianism,  and  afterwards  embraced  Catholi- 
cism.    Here  is  an  extract  from  his  "  Lucifer  :  "  — 

Who  sits  above  heaven's  heights  sublime, 

Yet  fills  the  grave's  profoundest  place, 
Beyond  eternity,  or  time. 

Or  the  vast  round  of  viewless  space  ? 
Who  on  Himself  alone  depends, 

Immortal,  glorious,  but  unseen, 
And  in  His  mighty  Being  blends 

What  rolls  around  or  flows  within  ? 

The  tongue  Thy  peerless  name  hath  spoken, 

No  space  can  hold  that  awful  name  ; 
The  aspiring  spirit's  wing  is  broken  : 

Thou  wilt  be,  wert,  and  art  the  same  I 
Language  is  dumb  ;  imagination, 

Knowledge,  and  science  helpless  fall ; 
They  are  irreverent  profanation, 

And  Thou,  O  God  !  art  all  in  all. 

It  was  on  a  Palm  Sunday,  about  seven  hundred  and 
fifty  years  after  the  midnight  song  of  Paul  and  Silas, 
at  Philippi,  that  the  Emperor  Louis,  "the  dcbonnaire" 
and  his  court,  were  on  their  way  to  the  cathedral  at 
Mentz,  in  full  procession,  when,  passing  a  dungeon, 
there  issued  from  the  prison-bars  a  hymn,  which, 
in  our  vernacular,  began  :  — 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  187 

Glory  and  honor  and  praise  to  Thee,  our  Redeemer  and  King  ! 
To  whom  httle  children  sang  lays,  to  whom  our  hosannas  we  bring. 

Fragrant  to  Thee  was  their  praise :  oh,  smile  on  the  offering  we 

bring ! 
Thy  joy  is  in  all  pleasant  lays,  Thou  blessed  and  all-gracious  King  : 

This  was  the  prison-song  of  Theodulph  of  Orleans, 
afterwards  canonized  as  a  saint.  His  hymn  touched 
the  heart  of  Charlemagne's  imperial  son,  and  the  per- 
secuted bishop  found  the  joy  of  deliverance  coming 
after  his  song.  The  "beloved  disciple,"  in  his  sea- 
girt prison  of  Patmos,  had  his  soul  refreshed  with  the 
ecstatic  songs  of  the  Celestial  Cit}^ ;  and  his  inspired 
record  of  the  vision  is  itself  the  grandest  of  all  hymns. 
There  was  a  Belgian  poet,  who  died  in  the  year  of 
grace  1300,  so  prolific  in  his  gifts,  that  he  made  a 
poetical  translation  of  the  Bible,  from  the  Latin  of 
Comestor,  into  the  Dutch  language.  The  poet's  name 
is  Jacob  van  Maerlant,  and  he  entitled  his  performance 
"Rymbybel."  A  copy  of  this  Rhyme-Bible  is  in  the 
Astor  Library. 

After  the  great  ecclesiastical  Reformation  had  burst 
the  iron  barriers  of  Romish  superstition,  the  grand  cho- 
rus of  sacred  song  resounded  from  many  other  lands 
beside  Germany  and  Sweden :  Italy,  France,  and 
Spain  soon  took  up  the  burden  of  the  refrain.  Ma- 
dame Guyon  sang  some  of  her  sweetest  devotional 
lyrics,  even  in  the  Bastille ;  and  Geneva  was  a  citadel 
of  strength  for  the  friends  of  religious  liberty  and 
truth.  Geneva  —  the  beautiful  city  of  the  Swiss 
lake,  once  covered  with  the  dense  darkness  of  the 
papacy,  and  anon  the  "beacon  of  the  Church,  and  a 
bulwark  of  Christianity"  —  is  replete  with  storied  and 


1 88  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

traditional  interest.  Once  it  was  the  asylum  for  refu- 
gees of  religious  persecution,  the  "  school  of  the 
prophets,"  and  the  headquarters  for  the  printing  and 
disseminating  of  the  proscribed  Bible ;  and,  ere  long, 
we  find  it  again  under  eclipse,  its  glory  departed,  and 
actually  arraying  itself  in  antagonism  with  the  very 
truth  of  which  it  was  lately  the  defence  and  deposi- 
tory for  the  world.  Yes :  with  its  proud,  ancestral 
faith,  its  creeds  and  symbols  inscribed  by  the  hand  of 
Calvin  himself,  Geneva  had,  indeed,  "lost  all  the 
Reformation  had  conferred  upon  it,  and  only  retained 
the  boast  of  its  historic  name  in  a  lifeless  and  insolent 
Rationalism."  For  apostolic,  vital  Christianity,  it 
had  substituted  the  subtle  poison  of  the  modern  infidel- 
ity of  Voltaire,  Gibbon,  and  Rousseau ;  and  the  inev- 
itable result  was  spiritual  desolation  and  death.  It 
was,  however,  at  this  juncture,  in  1816,  at  the  close  of 
the  protracted  wars  which  had  so  distracted  and  devas- 
tated the  continent  of  Europe,  that  Mr.  Robert  Hal- 
dane,  of  Scotland,  moved  with  a  zeal  for  the  mitigation 
of  this  spiritual  destitution,  reached  Geneva.  "At  the 
period  of  Mr.  Haldane's  visit,  both  clergy  and  profes- 
sors ridiculed  the  idea  of  the  divinity  of  Jesus  of  Naz- 
areth ;  and  countenanced,  by  their  lives,  the  gayety 
and  frivolity  by  which  people  in  general  sought  to 
drown  all  thoughts  of  eternity.  Here  and  there  a 
feeble  voice  was  heard,  bearing  witness  to  the  ancient 
faith ;  but  it  was  soon  stifled.  A  meeting  of  infidel 
students,  presided  over  by  M.  Merle  D'Aubign^,  pro- 
tested against  "  the  odious  aggression,"  as  they  styled  a 
very  moderate  assertion  of  the  cardinal  doctrines  of 
Christianity.  In  the  face  of  such  determined  opposi 
tion,  Haldane  was  in  despair,  and  abandoned  his  pro 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  189 

ject ;  but,  having  halted  at  Berne,  he  was  persuaded  to 
return  and  renew  the  effort.     A  second  time  he  was 
on  the  eve  of  abandoning  it,  when,  providentially,  he 
was  led  into  conversation  with  a  student  of  the  theo- 
logical   seminary,   on  the  subject  of  religion.      This 
young  man,  Mr.  James,  afterwards  pastor  at  Brede, 
was  profoundly  ignorant  of  the  gospel,  but  displayed 
a  deep   interest  in  Mr.  Haldane's   conversation.      On 
the  morrow  he  returned,  bringing  with  him  another 
student,  Mr.  C.  Rieu.     Both  of  them  became  evident- 
ly   awakened,    and   Haldane    made   arrangements   at 
once  to  prolong  his  stay.     The  sequel  may  best  be  re- 
lated in  his  own  words  :  "  The  two  students  with  whom 
I  first  conversed  brought  six  others,  in  the  same  state 
of  mind  with  themselves,  with  whom  I  had  many  and 
long  conversations.     Their  visits  became  so  frequent, 
and  at  such  different  hours,  that  I  proposed  they  should 
come  together ;  and  it  was  arranged  that  they  should 
do  so  three  times  a  week,  from  six  to  eight  ©"clock  in 
the  evening.     This   gave   me  time  to   converse  with 
others,  who,  from  the  report  of  the  students,  began  to 
visit  me.    After  having  proceeded  in  this  manner  about 
a  fortnight,  with  these  eight  students,  I  was  earnestly 
solicited,  in  the   name  of  the  other  students,  to  begin 
anew.     I  complied  with  the  request ;  and  during  the 
whole  of  the  winter,  and  until  the  termination  of  their 
studies  in  the  following  summer,  almost  all  the  stu- 
dents of  theology  regularly  attended,  and  God  was  gra- 
ciously pleased  to  accompany  his  Word  with  power." 
It  seems  the  constituted  "  faculty  "  stirred  up  an  oppo- 
sition to  this  movement  on  the  part  of  Mr.   Haldane, 
and  they  attempted   to   instigate   the    government   to 
banish  him  from  the  canton;   and,  this  failing,  they 


190  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

sought  to  have  him  impeached,  but  popuLir  sentiment 
overruled  this  also.  The  first-fruits  of  this  awakening 
was  Cassar  jNIalan,  one  of  the  pastors  of  the  city,  who 
had  been  first  quickened  by  a  conversation  with  Dr. 
Mason,  of  New  York,  who  passed  through  Geneva  on 
his  travels  at  this  time ;  "  but  Mr.  Haldane  was  hon- 
ored to  lead  him  as  an  awakened  sinner  to  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  Saviour.  Once  himself  enlightened,  "his 
eloquent  words  dropped  on  the  leaden  slumbers  of  his 
audience  like  bolts  of  fire  :  pastors,  professors,  syndics, 
and  private  citizens  were  cut  to  the  heart,  and  almost 
gnashed  on  him  with  their  teeth,  as  Dr.  Malan  de- 
scended from  the  pulpit,  and  passed  through  their  own 
ranks,  unrecognized,  an  avoided  and  rejected  man  !  "  " 
Dejected  and  overwhelmed,  the  preacher  hastened 
homeward,  and  at  his  own  door  was  met  by  Mr. 
Haldane,  who,  greeting  him  with  a  cordial  grasp  of 
the  hand,  said,  "Thank  God,  the  gospel  has  been 
once  more  preached  in  Geneva."  M.  Gaussen  also  (a 
neighboring  pastor)  boldly  preached  the  truth.  The 
heresy  of  Geneva  was  now  fairly  unveiled,  and  the 
persecuted  young  students  at  once  became  earnest  and 
successful  preachers  of  the  Word  of  Life.  A  new- 
church  organization  was  soon  effected  by  the  aid  of 
Mr.  Henry  Drummond,  a  young  English  gentleman 
of  fortune,  "  whose  heart  the  Lord  had  touched,"  and 
WHO  arrived  at  Geneva  just  as  Mr.  Haldane  was  leav- 
ing. It  is,  of  course,  impossible  to  estimate  the 
amount  of  good  which  has  resulted  from  the  mission- 
ary emprise  of  Mr.  Haldane.  It  was  the  initial  step 
in  a  work  which  has  spread  over  Europe,  and  which 
has  even  reached  to  this  continent,  in  the  Swiss  mis- 

•  Waymarks  in  the  Wilderness. 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  Tpl 

sions  to  the  Lower  Canadians.  The  mere  enumeration 
of  their  names,  long  since  endeared  to  us  for  their 
"works'  sake,"  would  evince  something  of  the  great- 
ness of  this  missionary  work.  Among  a  much  longer 
list,  were  Merle  d'Aubigne,  F.  Monod,  C.  Rieu,  C^sar 
Malan,  Gouthier,  Mejanel,  Felix  Neff,  and  M.  Olivier. 
Our  discursive  pen  has,  almost  unconsciously,  lin- 
gered about  this  interesting  "Home  of  Calvin"  so  long, 
that  we  are  fain  to  ask  forgiveness  for  the  digression, 
albeit  its  collateral  interest  may  well  atone  for  the  de- 
tention. Now  let  us  return  to  the  singers.  And,  first, 
let  us  listen  to  some  of  the  prison-songs  of  the  saintly 
Madame  Guyon,  whose  melodies,  despite  their  mysti- 
cism, are  very  charming;  for  example  :  — 

Thy  love,  O  God  !  restores  me, 

From  sighs  and  tears,  to  praise  ; 
And  deep  my  soul  adores  Thee, 

Nor  thinks  of  time  or  place. 
I  ask  no  more,  in  good  or  ill, 
But  union  with  Thy  holy  will. 
'Tis  that  which  makes  my  treasure, 

'Tis  that  which  brings  my  gain  ; 
Converting  woe  to  pleasure, 

And  reaping  joy  from  pain. 
Oh  !  'tis  enough,  whate'er  befall, 
To  know  that  God  is  all  in  all. 


'Tis  Love  unites  what  sin  divides  ; 
The  centre  where  all  bliss  resides  ; 
To  which  the  soul  once  brought. 
Reclining  on  the  First  Great  Cause, 
From  His  abounding  sweetness  draws 
Peace  passing  human  thought. 
Sorrow  foregoes  its  nature  there, 
And  life  assumes  a  tranquil  air, 


192  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Divested  of  its  woes. 
There  sovereign  goodness  soothes  the  breast, 
Till  then  incapable  of  rest, 

In  sacred,  sure  repose. 

She  seldom  refers  to  the  outward  events  of  her  life 
in  her  hymns.  The  following  stanzas  are,  we  believe, 
the  only  exception  ;  and  these  exhibit  an  unreserved 
acquiescence  and  resignation  of  spirit  that  is  truly 
exemplary. 

Nor  exile  I,  nor  prison,  fear  ;  love  makes  my  courage  great ; 

I  find  a  Saviour  everywhere,  His  grace  in  every  state. 

Nor  castle-walls,   nor    dungeons    deep,    exclude    His   quickening 

beams  ; 
There  I  can  sit,  and  sing,  and  weep,  and  dwell  on  heavenly  themes ! 

Her  first  imprisonment  by  the  Romanists,  on  account 
of  her  proclivity  to  Protestantism,  was  in  1688,  in  a 
convent.  Some  seven  years  afterwards  she  was  again 
imprisoned,  it  was  in  the  Castle  of  Vincennes ;  and, 
in  1698,  she  was  taken  to  the  Bastille,  where  she  was 
confined  four  years,  and  then  banished  to  Blois.  Bos- 
suet  was  especially  opposed  to  her  doctrine,  seeing  in 
it  only  a  revival  of  the  Gnostic  heres\'.  F^nelon,  on  the 
contrai-y,  became  a  convert  to  it,  and  spoke  and  wrote 
in  defence  of  it,  and  of  his  new  friend ;  and  thus 
brought  upon  himself  banishment,  and  upon  his  book 
papal  censure.  To  Cowper,  who  found  some  resem- 
blance between  the  tried  life  of  Madame  Guyon  and 
his  own,  we  are  indebted  for  admirable  translations  of 
some  of  the  best  of  her  religious  poems.  One  of  her 
prose  works,  "  A  Short  and  Easy  Method  of  Prayer," 
contains  her  account  of  tlie  "  Pra3'er  of  Silence,"  in 
which  not  only  is  there  no  utterance  by  the  voice,  but 
even  the  mind  concentrates  its  whole  energies  in  one 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,     &C.  I93 

desire,  "Thy  will  be  done."  This  work  was  feared 
by  the  Romanists,  who  collected  it  by  hundreds,  and 
burned  it. 

From  the  French  of  C.  Malan,  we  have  these  beau- 
tiful lines :  — 

No,  no,  it  IS  not  dying,  to  go  unto  our  God  ; 

The  glowing  earth  forsaking, 
Our  journey  homeward  taking  along  the  starry  road. 
No,  no,  it  is  not  dying,  heaven's  citizen  to  be  ; 

The  crown  eternal  wearing, 
And  rest  unbroken  sharing,  from  care  and  conflict  free. 
No,  no,  it  is  not  dying,  to  hear  the  precious  Word, 

"  Receive  the  Father's  blessing. 
For  evermore  possessing  the  favor  of  the  Lord." 

The  following  plaintive  lines,  translated  from  the 
French,  were  found  amongst  the  private  papers  of  the 
Queen  of  Scots,  when  her  cabinet  was  plundered  at 
Chartley,  shortly  before  her  death. 

Alas,  what  am  I  ?  what  my  life  become  ? 

A  corpse  existing  when  the  pulse  hath  fled  ! 

An  empty  shadow,  mark  for  conflicts  dread. 

Whose  only  hope  of  refuge  is  the  tomb. 

Cease  to  pursue,  O  foes  !  with  envious  hate  ; 

My  share  of  this  world's  glories  hath  been  brief; 

Soon  will  your  ire  on  me  be  satiate, 

For  I  consume  and  die  of  mortal  grief. 

And  ye,  my  faithful  friends,  who  hold  me  dear, 

In  dire  adversity,  and  bonds,  and  woe, 

I  lack  the  power  to  guerdon  love  sincere  ; 

Wish,  then,  the  close  of  all  my  ills  below, 

That,  purified  on  earth,  with  sins  forgiven. 

My  ransomed  soul  may  share  the  joys  of  heaven.* 

The  name  of  the  hapless  queen  reminds  us  of  her 
last  pathetic  hymn  or  prayer  :  — 

•  Savile's  Lyra  Sacra, 
13 


194  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

"  O  Domine  Deus  !     Speravi  in  Te ! 
O  care  mi  Jesu  !  nunc  libera  me,"  etc. 


O  Lord  God  !  I've  trusted  in  Thee  ! 

0  Jesus  beloved  !  now  liberate  me  ; 

In  fetters  so  galling,  in  tortures  appalling,  I  long  after  Thee ! 
In  moaning,  in  groaning,  on  bent  knee  atoning, 

1  adore  Thee !     I  implore  Thee  to  liberate  me. 

In  the  sixteenth  century  there  was  no  evangelist, 
among  women  at  least,  more  active  in  the  cause  of 
pure  Christianity,  than  was  the  Queen  of  Navarre. 
"  The  goodness  of  her  heart,  the  purity  of  her  life, 
and  the  abundance  of  her  works,  spoke  eloquently  to 
those  about  her  of  the  beauty  of  the  gospel."*  She 
wrote  some  religious  verses  and  ballads,  to  which 
many  of  the  nobility  of  France  owed  their  first  reli- 
gious impressions.  The  following  is  a  translation  of 
one  of  her  pieces  :  — 

Who  would  be  a  Christian  true,  must  his  Lord's  example  follow ; 
Every  worldly  good  resign,  and  earthly  glory  count  but  hollow: 

Honor,  wealth,  and  friends  so  sweet, 

He  must  trample  under  feet ; 

But,  alas  !  to  few  'tis  given 

Thus  to  tread  the  path  to  heaven ! 

With  a  willing,  joyful  heart,  his  goods  among  the  poor  divide ; 
Others'  trespasses  forgive  ;  revenge  and  anger  lay  aside  : 

Be  good  to  those  who  work  you  ill ; 

If  any  hate  you,  love  them  still ; 

But,  alas !  to  few  'tis  given 

Thus  to  tread  the  path  to  heaven ! 

He  must  hold  death  beautiful,  and  over  it  in  triumph  sing ; 
Love  it  with  a  warmer  heart  than  he  loveth  mortal  thing ; 

But,  alas  !  to  few  'tis  given 

Thus  to  tread  the  path  to  heaven  ! 

•  D'Aubigni's  Reformation. 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  I95 

Clement  Marot,  who  was  the  friend  of  Calvin,  and 
attached  to  the  court  of  Francis  I.,  made  a  French 
version  of  fifty  of  David's  Psalms,  and  also  wrote 
much  religious  poetry,  which  long  continued  to  be 
popular  in  Paris  and  Geneva,  among  the  Protestant 
churches.  His  sacred  lyrics  were  sung  alike  by 
prince  and  peasant,  and  even  children  chanted  them 
in  the  streets  of  Paris,  and  elsewhere.  Clement 
Marot's  metrical  version  of  the  Psalms  was  sung 
by  the  persecuted  Huguenots  and  Protestants  of  Hol- 
land, as  they  gathered  in  multitudes  under  the  shelter 
of  the  woods.  They  became,  indeed,  battle-songs, 
like  those  of  ancient  Israel  by  the  Red  Sea ;  or  the 
army  of  Jehoshaphat,  before  which  the  enemy  fled  as 
from  a  charge.  Bayle  ranks  Marot  among  the  best 
of  the  French  poets.  It  is  very  remarkable  that  his 
poetry  should  have  been  so  completely  ignored,  while 
the  hymns  of  Germany  have  been  so  frequently  trans- 
lated. We  offer  a  literal  prose  rendering  of  two  of 
his  minor  pieces,  as  specimens  :  — 

A   PRAYER   AFTER   MEALS. 

Eternal  Father,  who  commandest  us  not  to  be  anxious  for  the 
morrow !  we  give  Thee  thanks  for  the  good  things  which  Thou 
givest  us  for  this  day.  As  Thou  hast  now  been  pleased  to  open 
Thy  hand,  and  given  to  our  bodies  food  and  drink,  be  pleased 
also  to  nourish  our  souls  with  the  bread  of  heaven  for  the  glory 
of  Thy  name. 

LITTLE   CHRISTIAN   DEVICES. 

Is  Christ  dead  ?  Yes,  certainly !  What  caused  His  death  ? 
Perfect  charity.  What  was  the  occasion  ?  Ardent  love  !  Foi 
whom  ?  For  us,  sinners,  who  have  offended  Him  !  For  what  pur- 
pose ?  To  merit  for  us  His  Paradise,  which,  without  Him,  we 
could  not  have  acquired  by  austerity,  fasting,  watching,  shame, 
suffering,  and  torments.     He  saved  poor  Adam,  most  justly  con- 


196  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

demned,  with  his  posterity,  procuring  for  him  the  high  heaven,  of 
which,  by  his  sin,  he  was  disinherited ;  and  he  who  will  beheve  this 
truth,  which  is  beyond  the  sense  and  the  understanding,  —  loving, 
with  a  heart  full  of  purity,  —  will,  with  great  clearness,  vitally  know 
that  by  God  alone  he  has  his  unmerited  salvation. 

F^nelon  (1651-1715)  preached  his  first  sermon  at 
the  early  age  of  fifteen,  before  a  select  assembly  con- 
vened at  Paris,  whither  he  had  been  called  by  his 
uncle,  the  marquis.  He  afterwards  formed  an  acquaint- 
ance with  the  celebrated  quietist,  Madame  Guyon,  who 
was,  at  first,  in  high  favor  at  the  court  of  Louis  XIV. 
But  this  did  not  last  long :  Bossuet  instigated  a  series 
of  persecutions  against  her,  which  resulted  in  her  long 
imprisonment.  F^inelon,  however,  befriended  and 
defended  her,  as  already  stated ;  for  which  good  ser- 
vice he  was  placed  under  ban,  and  denounced  as  a 
heretic.     This  is  one  of  his  hymns  :  — 

Living  or  dying.  Lord,  I  would  be  Thine  ! 

Oh,  what  is  life  ? 

A  toil,  a  strife, 
Were  it  not  lighted  by  Thy  love  divine. 

I  ask  not  wealth, 

I  crave  not  health  : 
Living  or  dying.  Lord,  I  would  be  Thine  ! 

Oh,  what  is  death, 

When  the  poor  breath 
In  parting  can  the  soul  to  Thee  resign  ! 

While  patient  love 

Her  trust  doth  prove. 
Living  or  dying.  Lord,  I  would  be  Thine  ! 

Throughout  my  days, 

Be  constant  praise 
Uplift  to  Thee  from  out  this  heart  of  mine  ; 

So  shall  I  be 

Brought  nearer  Thee  : 
Living  or  dying.  Lord,  I  would  be  Thine  ! 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  I97 

It  is  a  singular  and  noteworthy  fact,  that  neither 
France,  Switzerland,  nor  Scotland,  possesses,  like 
Germany,  any  hymn-literature,  born  of  the  Ref  )rmed 
Church,  either  Lutheran  or  Calvinistic.  The  Church 
at  Geneva  used  David's  Psalter,  and  so  did  Scotland ; 
and  so  the  Scottish  Church  still  cherishes  her  rugged 
Scotch  version  of  them,  "with  all  the  sacred  associa- 
tions which  two  centuries  of  such  a  church  history  as 
that  of  Scotland  has  gathered  round  the  song  of  to- 
day, mingling  it  with  echoes  from  mountain  gather- 
ings, and  martyrs'  prisons,  and  scaffolds,  and  joyful 
death-beds :  probably  no  hymn-book  could  be  ever 
one-half  so  musical  or  poetical  to  Scottish  ears  and 
hearts,  as  those  strange,  rough  verses."  * 

We  pass  the  other  great  poets  of  mediaeval  Italy, 
Tasso,  and  his  successors,  because  they  cannot  be 
properly  classed  among  sacred  lyric  poets.  Petrarch 
did  not  write  much  that  may  be  so  characterized.  We 
find  but  one  or  two  of  his  sonnets  of  this  class. 

Petrarch,  in  his  later  days,  lived  in  peace  and  re- 
tirement at  Milan  :  it  was  in  a  sequestered  quarter, 
near  the  Church  of  St.  Ambrose.  "  My  life,"  he  says, 
in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  "has  been  uniform  ever  since 
age  tamed  the  fervor  of  youth,  and  extinguished  that 
fatal  passion  which  so  long  tormented  me.  Like  a 
weary  traveller,  I  quicken  my  steps  as  I  proceed.  I 
read  and  write,  day  and  night,  one  occupation  re- 
lieving another :  this  is  all  my  amusement  and  em- 
ployment. My  eyes  are  worn  out  wdth  reading, 
my  fingers  weary  with  holding  the  pen.  One  thing 
only  is  a  source  of  disquietude :  I  am  esteemed  more 
than  I  deserve,  so  that  a  vast  concourse  of  people 

•  Mrs.  Charles. 


198  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

come  to  see  me."  Yes  :  he  was  honored  by  all  men, 
and  , courted  by  monarchs.  He  died  in  1374,  seated 
in  his  library,  his  head  resting  on  a  book. 

This  sublime  vision  of  Future  Blessedness  is  from 
the  Italian  of  Petrarch  :  — 

The  time  will  come  when  every  change  shall  cease, 

This  quick  revolving  wheel  shall  rest  in  peace  ; 

No  summer  then  shall  glow,  nor  winter  freeze  ; 

Nothing  shall  be  to  come,  and  nothing  past. 

But  an  eternal  now  shall  ever  last ! 

Though  Time  shall  be  no  more,  yet  space  shall  give 

A  nobler  theatre  to  love  and  live. 

Then,  all  the  lying  vanities  of  life,  — 

The  sordid  source  of  envy,  hate,  and  strife,  — 

Ignoble  as  they  are,  shall  then  appear 

Beneath  the  searching  beam  of  Truth  severe. 

Then  souls,  from  sense  refined,  shall  see  the  fraud 

That  led  them  from  the  living  way  of  God. 

Blest  is  the  pile  that  marks  the  hallowed  dust, 

There,  at  the  resurrection  of  the  just, 

When  the  last  trumpet,  with  earth-shaking  sound, 

Shall  wake  her  sleepers  from  their  couch  profound  ; 

How  will  the  beatific  sight  display 

All  heavenly  beauty  in  these  climes  of  day  ! 

The  following  sonnet  is  from  the  same  source :  — 

I  live  lamenting  my  departed  years. 

Spent  in  the  vain  love  of  an  earthly  thing ; 
No  flight  essaying,  though  my  soaring  wing 

Hath  borne  me  on,  perchance,  to  lofty  spheres. 

O  Thou,  who  seest  my  misery  and  tears, 
Invisible,  eternal,  heavenly  King! 
Help  for  this  soul,  feeble  and  wandering, 

Support  her  weakness  and  allay  her  fears. 
So  that,  if  I  have  lived  in  storm  and  strife, 
Sheltered  in  peaceful  haven  I  may  rest ; 

And  my  last  hour,  oh,  be  Thou  near  to  aid  ! 

On  Thee,  thou  knowest,  my  only  hope  is  staid. 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  1 99 

The  following  is  from  the  Italian  of  Dante,  whose 
glowing  and  gloomy  pen  seemed  to  linger  so  spell- 
bound over  the  terrors  of  the  lost.  His  great  poems 
are  a  reflex  of  the  purgatorial  creed  of  the  Middle 
Ages. 

The  King  of  kings,  whose  goodness  knows  no  bounds, 

In  recompensing  ills  His  servants  bear, 

Makes  me  discard  all  anger,  care,  and  grief. 

And  to  the  court  of  heaven  direct  mine  eyes  ; 

And  while  I  muse  upon  the  glorious  choir 

Of  citizens,  who  dwell  where  all  is  pure. 

In  praising  my  Creator,  I,  His  creature. 

Am  more  inflamed  with  love,  the  more  I  praise ; 

For  if  I  contemplate  the  promised  bliss 

To  which  my  God  invites  the  Christian  race, 

For  me  there  seems  nought  else  to  be  desired. 

But,  friend  beloved,  for  thee  I  truly  grieve, 

Who  disregard'st  the  life  and  world  to  come, 

And  losest,  for  a  shadow,  bliss  secure  ! 

We  present  part  of  one  of  the  hymns  of  Savonarola, 
the  Romish  reformer  and  martyr  of  Italy,  thus  angli- 
cized by  Mrs.  H.  Beecher  Stowe  :  — 

Alas,  how  oft  this  sordid  heart  hath  wounded  Thy  pure  eye  ! 
Yet  for  this  heart,  upon  the  cross.  Thou  gav'st  Thyself  to  die. 

Burn  in  my  heart,  celestial  flame,  with  memories  of  Him, 
Till,  from  earth's  dross  refined,  I  rise  to  join  the  seraphim. 
Ah,  vanish  each  unworthy  trace  of  earthly  care  or  pride. 
Leave  only  graven  on  my  heart  the  Cross,  the  Crucified  ! 

Ariosto  discovers  so  much  devotional  feeling  in  the 
following  sonnet,  that  we  cannot  refrain  from  quot- 
ing it :  — 

How  shall  my  cold  and  lifeless  prayer  ascend, 
Father  of  Mercies  !  to  Thy  seat  on  high, 
If,  while  my  lips  for  Thy  deliverance  call, 
My  heart  against  that  liberty  contend  ? 


200  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Do  Thou,  who  knowest  all,  Thy  rescue  send, 

Though  every  power  of  mine  the  help  deny. 

Eternal  God !  oh,  pardon  that  I  went 

Erring  so  long !  whence  have  mine  eyes  been  smit 

With  darkness,  nor  the  good  from  evil  known. 

To  spare  offenders,  being  penitent, 

Is  even  ours  ;  to  drag  them  from  the  pit, 

Themselves  resisting, —  Lord,  is  Thine  alone! 

Michel  Angelo,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  his  friend 
and  biographer,  Vasari,  wrote  the  following  sonnet, 
introducing  it  with  these  words  :  "  I  know  you  will  tell 
me  that,  being  old,  I  am  unwise  to  attempt  the  making 
of  sonnets ;  but  since  they  say  I  am  in  my  dotage, 
I  do  but  perform  my  proper  office." 

Now  in  frail  bark,  and  on  the  storm-tossed  wave, 
Doth  this,  my  life,  approach  the  common  port, 
Whither  all  haste  to  render  up  account 
Of  every  a^-C,  —  the  erring  and  the  just. 
Wherefore  I  now  do  see,  that  by  the  love 
Which  rendered  Art  mine  idol  and  my  Lord, 
I  did  much  err.     Vain  are  the  loves  of  man, 
And  error  lurks  within  his  every  thought. 
Light  hours  of  this  my  life,  where  are  ye  now, 
When  towards  a  twofold  death  my  foot  draws  near  ? 
The  one  well-known,  the  other  threatening  loud. 
Not  the  erst  worshipped-art,  can  now  give  peace 
To  him  whose  soul  turns  to  that  love  divine 
Whose  arms  shall  lift  him  from  the  Cross  to  Heaven. 

Another  of  his  fine  sonnets  we  subjoin,  translated  by 

Wordsworth  :  — 

The  prayers  I  make  will  then  be  sweet  indeed, 

If  Thou  the  spirit  give  by  which  I  pray  ; 

My  unassisted  heart  is  barren  clay. 
That  of  its  native  self  can  nothing  feed. 
Of  good  and  pious  works  Thou  art  the  seed 

That  quickens  only  where  Thou  say'st  it  may. 

Unless  Thou  show  to  us  Thine  own  true  way, 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  20I 

No  man  can  find  it  :   Father,  Thou  must  lead. 

Do  Thou,  then,  breathe  those  thoughts  into  my  mind 

By  which  such  virtue  may  in  me  be  bred, 

That  in  Thy  holy  footsteps  I  may  tread  ; 
The  fetters  of  my  tongue  do  Thou  unbind, 

That  I  may  have  the  power  to  sing  of  Thee, 

And  sound  Thy  praises  everlastingly  ! 

Michel  Aijgelo,  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  men 
of  Italy,  was  born  in  1474.  He  was  painter,  sculp- 
tor, architect,  and  poet,  and  in  each  department  of 
science  alike  illustrious  and  unsurpassed.  The  build- 
ing of  St.  Peter's-,  at  Rome,  which  he  directed  many 
years,  and  the  marvellous  painting  of  the  Sistine 
Chapel,  are  works,  either  of  which  is  enough  for  im- 
mortality. He  died  at  Rome,  1564.  His  sonnets 
were  the  amusement  of  his  leisure  hours,  and  an  ele- 
gant pastime  they  were. 

Like  the  sonnets  of  Michel  Angelo,  those  of  Vit- 
toria  Colonna  derive  a  singular  interest  from  that 
spirit  of  devotion  which  breathes  through  the  religious 
section  of  them.  Scripturally  simple  and  ascetically 
austere,  they  are  so  trul}'-  Protestant  as  to  have  earned 
for  her  the  reputation  of  ranking  as  a  disciple  of  the 
Reformation. 

Vittoria  Colonna,  of  the  sixteenth  century,  was  the 
most  distinguished  poetess  of  Italy.  She  was  pos- 
sessed of  great  beauty,  both  of  person  and  character. 
Of  noble  lineage  and  endowed  with  great  wealth,  this 
"  most  brilliant  woman  of  Italy  "  passed  a  life  of  sin- 
gular tranquillity,  amid  scenes  of  great  political  tu- 
mult. Like  Petrarch's,  her  numerous  sonnets  breathe 
an  undying  affection,  and  are  the  eloquent  story  of  her 
great  sorrow,  for  she  became  a  widow  at  the  early  age 
of  thirty-six  years.      Although   she  remained  in  the 


202  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

communion  of  the  Romish  Church,  her  later  poems 
afford  unequivocal  evidence  of  her  possession  of  a  pure 
Protestant  faith.  The  following  sonnets  are  a  suffi- 
cient proof  of  this  :  — 

Deaf  would  I  be  to  earthly  sounds,  to  greet 

With  thought  intent,  and  fixed  on  things  above, 
The  high  angelic  strains,  the  accent  sweet,     . 

In  which  true  peace  accords  with  perfect  love  ; 
Each  living  instrument,  the  breath  that  plays 
Upon  its  strings,  from  chord  to  chord  conveys, 

And  to  one  end  so  perfectly  they  move, 
That  nothing  jars  the  eternal  harmony ; 
Love  melts  each  voice,  love  lifts  its  accents  high. 

Love  beats  the  time,  presides  o'er  every  string. 
The  angelic  orchestra  one  signal  sways; 
The  sound  becomes  more  sweet,  the  more  it  strays 
Through  varying  changes,  in  harmonious  maze  ; 

He  who  the  song  inspired,  prompts  all  who  sing  ! 


Father  of  Heaven !  if  by  Thy  mercy's  grace 

A  living  branch  I  am  of  that  True  Vine 

Which  spreads  o'er  all,  —  and  would  we  did  resign 

Ourselves  entire  by  faith  to  its  embrace  !  — 

In  me  much  drooping,  Lord,  Thine  eye  will  trace, 

Caused  by  the  shade  of  these  rank  leaves  of  mine. 

Unless  in  season  due  Thou  dost  refine 

The  humor  gross,  and  quicken  its  dull  pace. 

So  cleanse  me,  that,  abiding  e'er  with  Thee, 

I  feed  me  hourly  with  the  heavenly  dew. 

And  with  my  falling  tears  refresh  the  root. 

Thou  saidst,  and  Thou  art  truth,  Thou'dst  with  me  be 

Then  willing  come,  that  I  may  bear  much  fruit. 

And  worthy  of  the  stock  on  which  it  grew. 


Would  that  mine  ears  were  deaf  to  earthly  sound. 
That  every  thought  might  more  intently  dwell 
On  the  sweet  tones  and  notes  angelical 

Which  love  and  peace  upraise  the  world  around  . 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  203 

Nature  is  all  attuned,  and  still  is  found 
To  breathe  o'er  every  chord  a  living  spell, 
So  that,  concerted,  all  together  swell, 

And  pure  ethereal  harmonies  rebound. 

But  love  attunes  each  voice  :  love  rules  the  choir, 
Beats  time,  and  gives  the  burden  all  must  bear : 
'Tis  love  leads  nature's  choir,  nor  leads  it  wrong. 

Sweet  and  more  sweet  the  grateful  notes  aspire  : 
All  nature  joins  in  one  harmonious  song, 
And  tells  of  love  ;  for  God  has  given  the  air. 

From  Bovvring's  Batavian  poetry,  we  select  the  fol- 
lowing stanzas,  translated  from  Kamphuyzen,  of  the 
seventeenth  century  :  — 

If  there  be  one  whose  thoughts  delight  to  wander 

In  pleasure's  fields,  where  love's  bright  streams  meander, 
If  there  be  one  who  longs  to  find, 
Where  all  the  purer  blisses  are  enshrined, 

A  happy  resting-place  of  virtuous  worth, 

A  blessed  paradise  on  earth,  — 

Let  him  survey  the  joy-conferring  union 

Of  brothers  who  are  bound  in  fond  communion, 
And  not  by  force  of  blood  alone, 
But  by  their  mutual  sympathies  are  known  ; 

And  every  heart  and  every  mind  relies 

Upon  fraternal,  kindred  ties. 

Oh,  blessed  abode,  where  love  is  ever  vernal, 

Where  tranquil  peace  and  concord  are  eternal, 
Where  none  usurp  the  highest  claim. 
But  each  with  pride  asserts  the  other's  fame, — 

Oh !  what  are  all  earth's  joys  compared  to  thee, 

Fraternal  unanimity ! 

God,  in  his  boundless  mercy,  joys  to  meet  it ; 

His  promises  of  future  blessings  greet  it. 
And  fixed  prosperity,  which  brings 
Long  Hfe,  and  ease,  beneath  its  shadowing  wings, 

And  joy  and  fortune  that  remain  sublime 

Beyond  all  distance,  change,  and  time. 


204  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

The  following  sonnet  is  a  translation  from  the  Span- 
ish of  Lope  de  Vega,  by  Longfellow:  — 

Lord,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 

Thou  didst  seek  after  me  ?  that  Thou  didst  wait. 

Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gate, 

And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there  ? 

Oh,  strange  delusion,  that  I  did  not  greet 

Thy  blessed  approach  !  and  oh,  to  heaven  how  lost. 

In  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost. 

Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  Thy  feet ! 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 

"  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou  shalt  see 

How  He  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee  !  " 

And,  oh  !  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 

"  To-morrow  we  will  open,"  I  replied  ; 

And  when  to-morrow  came,  I  answered  still,  "  To-morrow.' 

Lope  de  Vega  was  born  at  Madrid,  in  1562  :  he  was 
a  prodigy  of  wit  in  his  early  days ;  and  he  kept  up 
his  reputation  as  a  man  of  many  words,  till  the  end  of 
his  days.  It  is  said  that  he  read  Latin  at  live  years 
old ;  and  such  was  his  passion  for  verses,  that,  before 
he  could  use  a  pen,  he  bribed  his  elder  schoolmates, 
with  a  portion  of  his  breakfast,  to  write  to  his  dicta- 
tion, and  then  exchanged  his  effusions  with  others, 
for  prints  and  hymns.  Thus  truly  he  lisped  in  num- 
bers ;  and,  as  he  was  the  most  prolific  and  voluminous 
of  poets,  he  kept  himself  diligently  exercised  in  that 
line,  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

Don  Jorge  Manrique,  of  Spain,  flourished  in  the 
latter  half  of  the  fifteenth  century.  He  followed  the 
profession  of  arms,  and  died  on  the  field  of  battle,  in 
the  year  I479'  His  grand  funeral  hymn,  or  ode,  was 
written  in  memory  of  his  father's  death.  The  transla- 
tion is  by  Professor  Longfellow.  The  ode  extends  to 
eighty-four  stanzas  ;  we  present  eight  of  them  :  — 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  2O5 

Oh,  let  the  soul  her  slumbers  break  ; 

Let  thought  be  quickened,  and  awake,  — 

Awake  to  see  • 

How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone, 

And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on, 

How  silently ! 

Let  no  one  fondly  dream  again. 

That  Hope,  and  all  her  shadowy  train, 

Will  not  decay  : 

Fleeting  as  were  the  dreams  of  old, 

Remembered  like  a  tale  that's  told, 

They  pass  away. 

Our  lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 
To  that  unfathomed,  boundless  sea, 
The  silent  grave  ! 
Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  one  dark  wave. 

Thither  the  mighty  torrents  stray, 
Thither  the  brook  pursues  its  way, 
And  tinkling  rill. 
They  all  are  equal :  side  by  side 
The  poor  man  and  the  son  of  pride 
Lie  calm  and  still. 

I  will  not  here  invoke  the  throng 

Of  orators  and  sons  of  song. 

The  deathless  few  ; 

Fiction  entices,  and  deceives, 

And,  sprinkled  o'er  her  fragrant  leaves, 

Lies  poisonous  dew. 

To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise. 

The  Eternal  Truth,  the  Good  and  Wise : 

To  Him  I  cry, 

Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lot, 

But  the  world  comprehended  not 

His  Deity! 


206  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Yes  :  the  glad  Messenger  of  love, 
To  guide  us  to  our  home  above, 
•  The  Saviour  came. 

Born  amid  mortal  cares  and  fears, 
He  suffered,  in  this  vale  of  tears, 
A  death  of  shame. 

Did  we  but  use  it  as  we  ought. 

This  world  would  school  each  wandering  thought 

To  its  high  state  ! 

Faith  wings  the  soul  beyond  the  sky. 

Up  to  that  better  world  on  high. 

For  which  we  wait ! 

This  sonnet,  anglicized  by  the  same  elegant  pen, 
is  from  the  Spanish  of  Francisco  de  Aldana  :  — 

Clear  fount  of  light !  my  native  land  on  high, 
Bright  with  a  glory  that  shall  never  fade ! 
Mansion  of  Truth!  without  a  vale  or  shade  ; 
Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 
There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 
Gasping  no  longer  for  life's  feeble  breath  ; 
But,  sentinelled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 
With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not,  death. 
Beloved  country !  banished  from  thy  shore, 
A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay. 
The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee  ! 

The  rt  markable  ode  to  the  Divine  Being,  by  Derz- 
havin,  who  has  been  styled  the  Russian  Pindar,  is 
luxuriant  with  ornament  and  imaginative  power.  This 
poem  has  been  translated  into  several  European  lan- 
guages, and  also  into  the  Chinese  and  Japanese.  It 
is  stated  that  a  copy  of  it,  printed  in  gold  letters,  on 
white  satin,  is  hung  up  in  the  palace  of  the  Emperor 
of  China,  and  another  in  the  Temple  of  Jeddo.*  Here 
follows  a  portion  of  the  stanzas  :  — 

•  Golownin's  Japan. 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  20/ 

O  Thou  Eternal  One  !  whose  presence  bright 

All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide  ; 
Unchanged  through  Time's  all-devastating  flight, 

Thou  only  God !  there  is  no  God  beside. 
Being  above  all  beings,  Mighty  One, 

Whom  none  can  comprehend,  and  none  explore ; 
Who  fiU'st  existence  with  Thyself  alone  ; 
Embracing  all ;  supporting,  ruling  o'er  ; 
Being  whom  we  call  God,  —  and  know  no  more  ! 
In  its  sublime  research,  philosophy 

May  measure  out  the  ocean  deep,  may  count 
The  sands,  or  the  sun's  rays  ;  but,  God  !  for  Thee 

There  is  no  weight  nor  measure  :  none  can  mount 
Up  to  Thy  mysteries  :  reason's  brightest  spark. 

Though  kindled  by  Thy  light,  in  vain  would  try 
To  trace  Thy  counsels,  infinite  and  dark ; 

And  thought  is  lost  ere  thought  can  soar  so  high. 
Even  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 
Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call 

First  chaos,  then  existence  ;  Lord,  on  Thee 
Eternity  had  its  foundation  :  all 

Sprung  forth  from  Thee,  of  light,  joy,  harmony. 
Sole  origin  :  all  life,  all  beauty.  Thine. 

Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create  ; 
Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine  ! 
Thou  art,  and  wert,  and  shalt  be,  glorious,  great. 
Life-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate  ! 
Thy  chains  the  unmeasured  universe  surround, 

Upheld  by  Thee,  by  Thee  inspired  with  breath. 
Thou  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound. 

And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death  ! 
As  .sparks  mount  upward  from  the  fiery  blaze, 

So  suns  are  born,  so  worlds  sprung  forth  from  Thee  ! 
And  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays 

Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 
Of  heaven's  bright  army  glitters  in  Thy  praise. 
A  million  torches  lighted  by  Thy  hand 

Wander  unwearied  through  the  blue  abyss  ; 
They  own  Thy  power,  accomplish  Thy  command, 
All  gay  with  life,  all  eloquent  with  bliss. 


208  liVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

What  shall  we  call  them  ?     Piles  of  crystal  light, 

A  glorious  coinpany  of  golden  streams, 
Lamps  of  celestial  ether,  burning  bright. 

Suns  lighting  systems  with  their  joyous  beams  ? 
But  Thou  to  these  art  as  the  noon  to  night. 
Yes :  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea, 

All  this  magnificence  in  Thee  is  lost : 
What  are  ten  thousand  worlds  compared  to  Thee  ? 

And  what  am  /  then  ?     Heaven's  unnumbered  host, 
Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  arrayed 

In  all  the  glory  of  sublimest  thought, 
Is  but  an  atom  in  the  balance  ;  weighed 

Against  Thy  greatness,  is  a  cipher  brought 

Against  infinity !     O,  what  am  I  then  ?     Nought ! 
Nought !  yet  the  effluence  of  Thy  light  divine. 

Pervading  worlds,  hath  reached  my  bosom  too ; 
Yes !  in  my  spirit  doth  thy  Spirit  shine, 

As  shines  the  sunbeam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 
Nought !  yet  I  live,  and  on  hope's  pinions  fly 

Eager  towards  Thy  presence  ;  for  in  Thee 
I  live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell ;  aspiring  high. 

Even  to  the  throne  of  Thy  Divinity. 

I  am,  O  God,  and  surely  Thou  must  be  ! 
Thou  art !  —  directing,  guiding  all,  —  Thou  art ! 

Direct  my  understanding  then  to  Thee, 
Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering  heart; 

Though  but  an  atom  'midst  immensity. 
Still  1  am  something  fashioned  by  Thy  hand: 

I  hold  a  middle  rank  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  ; 
On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand, 

Close  to  the  realms  where  angels  have  their  birth. 
Just  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit-land  ! 

Creator,  —  yes  !     Thy  wisdom  and  Thy  word 
Created  me.     Thou  source  of  life  and  good. 

Thou  Spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord  ! 

Thy  light,  Thy  love,  in  their  bright  plenitude, 

Filled  me  with  an  immortal  soul,  to  spring 
O'er  the  abyss  of  death,  and  bade  it  wear 

The  garments  of  eternal  day,  and  wing 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  209 

Its  heavenly  flight  beyond  tliis  little  sphere, 
Even  to  its  source,  —  to  Thee,  its  Author  there. 

Gabriel  Romanovitch  Derzhavin,  the  most  distin- 
guished lyric  poet  of  Russia,  was  born  in  1743,  and 
died  in  1816.  In  1791,  Catherine  bestowed  on  him 
the  office  of  Secretary  of  State.  Two  years  later,  he 
was  elected  to  the  Senate  :  various  other  appointments 
he  successively  occupied ;  after  holding  which  some 
time,  he  retired  on  full  pension.  His  far-famed  "Ad- 
dress to  the  Deity,"  for  wealth  of  imagery,  grandeur, 
and  sublimity,  is  said  to  be  unsurpassed  by  any  known 
ode.  Its  mastery  of  language,  and  splendor  of  con- 
ception, are  its  distinguishing  characteristics. 

The  well-known  lines  on  the  "Celestial  Sabbath," 
translated  by  Bo  wring  from  the  Russian,  are  sung  at 
midnight,  in  the  Greek  churches,  the  week  before 
Easter :  — 

The  golden  palace  of  my  God, 

Towering  above  the  clouds,  I  see  ; 
Beyond,  the  cherubs'  bright  abode, 

Higher  than  angels'  thoughts  can  be  : 
How  can  I  in  those  courts  appear, 

Without  a  wedding-garment  on  ? 
Conduct  me.  Thou  Life-Giver,  there,  — 

Conduct  me  to  Thy  glorious  throne  ! 
And  clothe  me  with  Thy  robes  of  light. 
And  lead  me  through  sin's  darksome  night, 
My  Saviour  and  my  God  ! 

From  the  same  source,  we  derive  the  following  eX' 
tract :  — 

The  hollowest  vessels  sound  the  loudest, 

The  richest  treasures  deepest  lie  ; 
Yet  piled  up  wealth,  and  rank  the  proudest. 

Are  but  tumultuous  vanity. 
H 


2IO  EV'ENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

I  am  a  prince,  with  princely  spirit, 

A  ruler,  if  I  rule  my  heart ; 
A  titled  heir,  if  I  inherit 

Of  virtue,  wisdom,  truth,  a  part. 

The  following  is  Bowring's  translation  of  a  "Song 
of  the  Cherubim,"  from  the  Russian  of  Khernvimij, 
which  is  chanted  in  the  Greek  churches  during  the 
procession  of  the  Cup  :  — 

See  the  glorious  cherubim 

Thronging  round  the  Eternal's  throne  ; 
Hark  !  they  sing  their  holy  hymn. 
To  the  unknown  Three  in  One,  —  All-supporting  Deity ! 

Living  Spirit,  praise  to  Thee  ! 

Rest,  ye  worldly  tumults,  rest ; 

Here  let  all  be  peace  and  joy ; 
Grief  no  more  shall  rend  the  breast, 

Tears  no  more  bedew  the  eye. 

Heaven-directed  spirits,  rise 

To  the  temple  of  the  skies  ! 
Join  the  ranks  of  angels  bright. 

Near  the  Eternal's  dazzling  light 

The  following  ode,  or  paraphrase,  of  a  passage  from 
the  book  of  Job,  is  quoted  from  Bowring's  translation 
from  the  Russian  of  Lomonossov  :  — 

O  Man  !  whose  weakness  dares  rebel 

Against  the  Almighty's  strength,  draw  nigh 
And  listen,  for  my  tongue  shall  tell 

His  message  from  the  unclouded  sky ! 
'Midst  rain  and  storm  and  hail  He  spoke, 
Around  the  piercing  thunder  broke  ; 
At  His  proud  word  the  clouds  disperse, 
And  thus  He  shakes  the  universe  ! 
"  Come  forth,  then,  in  thy  pride  and  power,  — 

Come  answer  me,  thou  son  of  earth : 
Where  wert  thou  in  that  distant  hocif 

When  first  I  gave  creation  birth  ? 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  211 

When  all  the  mountains'  heights  were  reared, 
When  all  the  heavenly  hosts  appeared,  — 
My  wisdom  and  my  strength's  display  ? 
Man  !  let  thy  towering  wisdom  say  : 
"  Where  wert  thou  when  the  stars,  new  born, 

Sprung  into  light  at  my  command, 
And  filled  the  bounds  of  eve  and  morn, 

And  sung  the  Intelligence  that  planned 
Their  course  sublime  ?     When  first  the  sun 
On  wings  of  glory  had  begun 
His  race,  and  oceans  of  pure  light 
Wafted  mild  Luna  through  the  night  ? 
"  Who  bid  the  ascending  mountains  rise  ? 

Who  fixed  the  boundary  of  the  sea  ? 
Who,  when  the  waves  attacked  the  skies. 

Confined  their  fluvious  revelry  ? 

"  Say,  hast  thou  scaled  the  mountains'  height, 

Or  sounded  ocean's  vast  abyss, — 
Or  measured  all  that  infinite 

Immensity  that  o'er  thee  is  ?  " 

The  memory  of  the  amiable  but  hapless  Princess 
Elizabeth,  daughter  of  James  I.,  who  became  Queen 
of  Bohemia,  is  associated,  as  a  hymnist,  with  the 
names  of  the  celebrated  Dr.  Donne,  George  Wither, 
and  others.  Her  history  is  a  sad  and  eventful  one. 
"  She  went  a  happy  bride  to  her  husband's  hereditary 
palace  at  Heidelberg,  became  a  happy  mother  at 
eighteen,  saw  her  husband  placed  on  the  throne  of 
Bohemia,  and  realized  the  dream  of  her  youthful 
ambition,  —  a  crown.  But  scarcely  had  she  shown 
her  queenly  presence  in  Bohemia,  before  her  hus- 
band was  driven  from  his  royalty.  She  fled  for  her 
life,  and  entered  on  the  dark  succession  of  misfortunes 
which  crowded  on  her  the  rest  of  her  days.  Widowed 
at  last,   beggared,  tortured  by  her   father's   crooked 


212  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

policy ;  living  to  hear  of  her  brother  Charles's  death 
on  the  scaffold ;  parting  with  her  children,  for  lack  of 
means  to  support  them ;  treated  with  cold  neglect  by 
the  only  son  who  could  help  her ;  having  her  sound 
Protestant  heart  smitten  at  the  perversion  of  others  of 
her  children  to  Romanism, — yet  her  hopeful,  buoyant 
heart  kept  up  until,  after  forty  sorrowful  years  of 
exile,  and  thirty  years  of  desolate  widowhood,  she 
returned,  at  the  age  of  sixty-five,  to  finish  her  check- 
ered career  in  the  land  of  her  infancy."  She  died 
in  Leicester  House,  London ;  leaving  the  relics  of  her 
royal  furniture  to  be  preserved  in  that  same  Combe 
Abbey,  which  had  witnessed  the  pleasures  of  her 
youth,  and  that  piety  which  had  solaced  her  to  the 
end. 

This  is  joy,  this  is  true  pleasure, 

If  we  best  things  make  our  treasure, 

And  enjoy  them  at  full  leisure, 

Evermore  in  richest  measure. 

God  is  only  excellent ; 

Let  up  to  Him  our  love  be  sent; 

"Whose  desires  are  set  or  bent 

On  aught  else,  shall  much  repent 

God  most  holy,  high,  and  great, 
Our  delight  doth  make  complete. 
When  in  us  He  takes  His  seat ; 
Only  then  are  we  replete. 

Why  should  vain  joys  us  transport  ? 
Earthly  pleasures  are  but  short, 
And  are  mingled  in  such  sort, 
Griefs  are  greater  than  the  sport. 

When  thy  heart  is  fullest  fraught 
With  heaven's  love,  it  shall  be  caught 
To  the  place  it  loved  and  sought, 
Which  Christ's  precious  blood  hath  bought. 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  213 

These  lines  are  from  a  hymn  of  thirty-three  stanzas, 
written  while  under  her  sore  tribulation. 

Petofi,  the  "Burns  of  Hungary,"  was  born  on  the 
first  dawn  of  the  year  1823.  In  the  spring  of  1844, 
he  reached  Pesth,  where  he  introduced  himself  to 
Vorosmarty,  the  then  most  renowned  of  the  Magyar 
poets.  He  was  at  first  coldly  received,  and  deemed 
rude  and  intrusive  ;  but,  after  hearing  him  read  some 
of  his  verses,  his  host  exclaimed,  "Hungary  never 
had  such  lyrics  :  you  must  be  cared  for."  From  that 
moment  his  literary  fame  and  fortune  were  established, 
his  merits  recognized.  The  popular  voice  also  award- 
ed him  renown;  for,  says  a  contemporary,  "he  never 
went  to  bed  at  night,  or  arose  in  the  morning,  without 
hearing  his  songs  from  the  multitudinous  passengers 
in  the  streets."  In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1849,  ^e 
joined  Bem,  whose  adjutant  he  became,  in  the  patriot 
army.  He  was  present  at  the  fearful  slaughter  in 
Segesvar ;  and,  in  the  memorable  retreat  of  the  Mag- 
yar army,  he  was  killed. 

We  select  three  little  pearls  from  Sir  J.  Bowring's 
translation  of  his  poems  :  — 

Round  the  dark  green  circle  of  the  woods  I  wander, 
Looking  on  the  flowers  the  high  oaks  blooming  under ; 
Birds  among  the  branches,  bees  among  the  flowers, 
Music  all  around  us  bursting  from  the  bowers  ; 
Flowers  and  trees  are  still,  yet  seem  alive  and  wary, 
Listening  to  the  hymns  of  nature's  sanctuary. 
Is  all  sleeping  here,  — the  forest,  flowers,  and  furrows  ? 
Let  me  stand  and  muse,  forgetful  of  my  sorrows. 


Why  should  Death  an  image  bring,  mouldering  and  perishing  ? 

Death,  which  is  the  charioteer, 
Our  freed  spirits  to  convey,  over  an  ascending  way, 

To  the  heavens  all  bright  and  clear. 


214  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

When  I  look  upon  the  sky,  in  its  blue  immensity, 

Fancy  fashions  out  a  road, 
Fading  in  the  distance  far,  where,  from  smiling  star  to  star, 

We  are  welcomed  up  to  God. 


And  what  is  sorrow  ?  'tis  a  boundless  sea. 

And  what  is  joy  ! 
A  little  pearl  in  that  deep  ocean's  bed  : 
I  sought  it,  found  it,  held  it  o'er  my  head, 

And,  to  my  soul's  annoy, 
It  fell  into  the  ocean's  depth  again  ; 
And  now  I  long  and  look  for  it  in  vain. 

Queen  Maria  of  Hungary's  "  Song  of  the  Cross 
was  probably  composed  in  1526,  when  she  was  com- 
pelled to  flee  from  Buda,  on  account  of  her  adherence 
to  the  Reformed  doctrine,  after  the  battle  of  Mohacz, 
in  which  her  husband  and  the  flower  of  the  Hun- 
garian nobility  fell,  in  defending  their  country  against 
the  Turks. 

Can  I  my  fate  no  more  withstand,  nor  'scape  the  hand 
That  for  my  faith  would  grieve  me  ? 
This  is  my  strength,  that  well  I  know, 

In  weal  or  woe, 
God's  love  the  world  must  leave  me. 
God  is  not  far,  though  hidden  now : 
He  soon  shall  rise,  and  make  them  bow, 

Who  of  His  Word  bereave  me. 

Judge  as  ye  will  my  cause  this  hour,  yours  is  the  power: 

God  bids  me  strive  no  longer ; 

I  know  what  mightiest  seems  to-day 

Shall  pass  away ; 
Time  than  your  rule  is  stronger. 
The  Eternal  Good  I  rather  choose, 
And,  fearless,  all  for  this  I  lose  ; 

God  help  me  thus  to  conquer! 


SWEDISH,    FRENCH,    SPANISH,    &C.  215 

We  conclude  our  desultory  ramble  over  these  far- 
apart  countries  in  quest  of  sacred  song,  by  citing  part 
of  a  poetic  waif,  —  rather  a  splendid  poem,  culled 
from,  —  where  think  you,  gentle  reader?  —  the  Sand- 
wich Islands !  It  is  from  the  "  Honolulu  Friend,* 
April,    1868,    and    is    entided   "The   Soul's    Dream- 


Wings  of  beauty !  wings  immortal !  hovering  o'er  me  in  death's 
night, 

Ye  will  bear  me  onward  ever,  through  the  bowers  of  pure  delight ! 

I  shall  pass  the  sable  portal,  only  changed  to  form  of  light. 

Leaving  earth,  to  soar  a  spirit,  boundless  in  its  trackless  flight 

Clay  may  feel  a  pang  at  parting,  as  the  spirit  brighter  glows. 

As  the  phoenix  mounts  in  rapture  from  the  ashes  of  its  woes ; 

Then,  away,  a  pure  thought  fleeting  where  vast  worlds  their  lore 
disclose, 

Where  love's  vestal  lights  flame  brightly,  hopes  with  folded  wings 
repose. 

Through  vast  space,  on  freedom's  pinions,  seeking  knowledge  ever- 
more ; 

Its  wide  home,  the  blue  empyrean,  the  eternal  spirit  shore  ; 

There  the  twinkling  stars  are  pages,  gemmed  with  wisdom's  bound- 
less store. 

Where  the  records  of  the  ages  yield  in  light  their  spirit  lore. 

Kindred  spirits  there  are  meeting,  will-winged  thoughts  that  God- 
like move. 

In  their  radiant  robes  electric,  through  the  starry  isles  they  rove. 

Wings  of  beauty !  wings  immortal !  hovering  o'er  me  in  death's 
night. 

Ye  will  bear  me  onward  ever,  through  the  bowers  of  pure  delight ! 

I  shall  pass  the  sable  portal,  only  changed  to  form  of  hght, 

To  dust  returning  what  is  mortal,  seeking  God  in  boundless  flight 


SIXTH      EVENING. 


EARLY   ENGLISH. 


SIXTH      EVENING. 


EARLY  ENGLISH. 

A 1 7E  have  hitherto  been  listening  to  the  sweet 
*  '  stream  of  sacred  music,  as  it  welled  up  from  the 
Reformed  churches  of  Germany,  and  other  States  of 
Continental  Europe.  It  now  remains  for  us  to  trace 
the  meanderings  of  that  same  stream,  in  its  fertilizing 
course  along  the  shores  of  the  island-homes  of  Great 
Britain. 

The  earliest  utterances  of  Christian  bards  in  Eng- 
land were  the  rugged  Saxons ;  then  came  the  Nor- 
mans, and  with  them  the  "Miracle  Plays,"  and  other 
poems  of  the  fourteenth  century.  Afterwards,  the 
minstrel-monk,  Chaucer,  strung  his  lute  to  the  high 
themes  of  Holy  Writ ;  then  followed  the  "divine  Spen- 
ser," whose  florid  allegories,  like  a  series  of  richly 
emblazoned  frescoes,  have  not  yet  ceased  to  enchant 
us  by  their  exuberant  imagery  and  surpassing  beauty. 
As  one  might  infer  from  his  "  Faerie  Queene,"  Spenser 
was  a  pure  and  noble-minded  Christian  gentleman, 
whose  intellectual  vigor  and  spiritual  culture  were 
much  in  advance  of  his  age.  His  rare  sonnets  on  the 
Seasons  are  unique  cabinet  pictures,  and  are  among 
the  most  melodious  in  the  language.     Milton  was  an 


220  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

especial  admirer  of  his  "  Hymn  of  Heavenly  Love," 
which,  like  most  of  his  poetry,  has  a  peaceful  rhyth 
mical  flow,  like  the  ripple  of  a  rivulet.  But  we  are 
anticipating  :  let  us  then  return  to  Chaucer.  He  lived 
from  A.D.  1328  till  1400,  was  the  prototype  of  Milton, 
and  presents  to  us  many  fine  examples  of  sacred 
poetr}^  including  the  lamentation  of  Mary  Magda- 
lene, lines  on  the  Soul,  and  the  beautiful  story  of  the 
Christian  Martyr,  in  the  "Canterbury  Tales." 

Chaucer  is  the  earliest  of  the  Anglican  bards  who 
have  sung  to  us  in  intelligible  English.  Of  him 
the  courtly  Sidney  said,  he  marvelled  that  "  he  should 
have  seen  so  distinctly  in  that  gray  and  misty  morning 
of  literature."  As  an  artist,  he  has  portrayed  to  us  the 
thoughts,  habits,  and  people  of  his  time ;  and  his 
sweet  pastoral  sketches  are  fragrant  with  the  dews  and 
freshness  of  spring.  Chaucer  inclined  to  Protestant- 
ism and  to  Wickliffe's  Bible,  which  is  much  in  his 
favor:  he  was  a  Christian  monk,  and  a  genius.  We 
shall  only  recite  his  stanzas,  believed  to  have  been 
written  on  his  death-bed  :  — 

Fly  from  the  crowd,  and  be  to  virtue  true, 

Content  with  what  thou  hast,  though  it  be  small : 

To  hoard  brings  hate  ;  nor  lofty  thoughts  pursue  ; 
He  who  climbs  high,  endangers  many  a  fall. 

Be  thou  serene,  nor  at  thy  lot  repine  : 

He  'scapes  all  ill  whose  bosom  is  resigned  ; 
Nor  way,  nor  weather,  will  be  always  fine  ; 

Beside,  thy  home's  not  here,  a  journey  this  ; 
A  pilgrim  thou,  then  hie  thee  on  thy  way ; 

Look  up  to  God,  intent  on  heavenly  bliss, 
Take  what  the  road  affords,  and  praises  pay. 

Shun  brutal  lusts,  and  seek  thy  soul's  high  sphere. 
So  truth  shall  shield  thee  or  from  hurt  or  fear. 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  221 

Edmund  Spenser  (1553-1598),  towards  the  close  of 
his  life,  wrote  four  beautiful  hymns  besides  his  cele- 
brated "Faerie  Qiieene."  From  one  of  these  hymns 
we  extract  the  following,  modernized  :  — 

Love  !  lift  me  up  upon  thy  golden  wings, 

From  this  base  world  unto  thy  heaven's  height, 

Where  I  may  see  those  admirable  things 

Which  there  Thou  workest  by  Thy  sovereign  might ; 

Far  above  feeble  reach  of  earthly  sight. 
That  I  thereof  an  heavenly  hymn  may  sing. 

Unto  the  God  of  Love,  high  heaven's  King ! 

Learn  rfim  to  love,  that  \ovhd  thee  so  dear, 
And  in  thy  breast  His  blessed  image  bear  ; 
With  all  thy  heart,  with  all  thy  soul  and  mind. 

Thou  must  Him  love,  and  His  behests  embrace ; 
All  other  loves  with  which  the  world  doth  blind 

Weak  fancies,  and  stir  up  affections  base, 
Thou  must  renounce  and  utterly  displace. 
And  give  thyself  unto  Him  full  and  free, 
That  full  and  freely  gave  Himself  to  thee. 
Then  thou  shalt  feel  thy  spirit  so  possessed. 

And  ravished  with  devouring  great  desire 
Of  His  dear  self,  that  shall  thy  feeble  breast 

Inflame  with  love,  and  set  thee  all  on  fire 
With  burning  zeal  through  every  part  entire, 
That  in  no  earthly  thing  thou  shalt  delight 
But  in  His  sweet  and  amiable  sight. 

The  claim  of  Spenser  to  be  regarded  as  a  sacred 
poet  does  not  rest  upon  his  hymns  alone,  although 
these  would  be  enough  to  embalm  and  consecrate  the 
volume  that  contains  them.  Spenser  may  be  styled 
the  representative  of  one  class  of  our  sacred  poetry, 
while  Milton  is  that  of  the  other.  The  former,  indeed, 
should  be  read,  as  Warton  loved  to  read  him,  — 

"  At  the  root  of  mossy  trunk  rechned." 


222  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

'*The  lineaments  of  his  Christian  character  will  not 
be  darkened,"  writes  Willmott,  "to  any  thoughtful 
eye,  by  those  '  allegorical  devices  '  in  which  the  poet 
loved  cloudily  to  enwrap  them.  His  pictures  glow  with 
a  southern  sunshine  ;  but  their  richest  colors  are  fre- 
quently employed  to  heighten  and  embellish  virtue, 
and  his  most  gorgeous  descriptions  often  point  their 
moral  to  the  heart." 

We  select  two  more  beautiful  passages  :  they  are 
from  that  rich  storehouse  of  poetic  fancy,  his  "Fae- 
rie Queene,"  in  the  original  orthography  :  — 

ON   THE   MINISTRY   OF   ANGELS. 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven  ?    And  is  there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creatures  bace, 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move  ? 
There  is  :  else  much  more  wretched  were  the  cace 
Of  men  then  beasts  :  but  O  the  exceeding  grace 
Of  Highest  God !  that  loves  His  creatures  so, 
And  all  His  workes  with  mercy  doth  embrace, 
That  blessed  angels  he  sends  to  and  fro, 
To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  His  wicked  foe  ! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave 
To  come  to  succour  us  that  succour  want ! 
How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pineons  cleave 
The  flitting  skyes,  like  flying  pursuivant, 
Against  fowle  feendes  to  ayd  us  militant ! 
They  for  us  fight,  they  watch,  and  dewly  ward. 
And  their  bright  squadrons  round  about  us  plant ; 
And  all  for  love,  and  nothing  for  reward  ; 
O  why  should  hevenly  God  to  men  have  such  regard  ! 


IMPERSONATION   OF  FAITH. 

She  was  arrayed  all  in  lily  white, 

In  her  right  hand  she  bore  a  cup  of  gold, 

With  wine  and  water  filled  up  to  the  height ; 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  223 

In  which  a  serpent  did  himself  unfold, 
That  horror  made  to  all  that  did  behold  ; 
But  she  no  whit  did  change  her  constant  mood  : 
And  in  her  other  hand  she  did  fast  hold 
A  book  that  was  both  signed  and  sealed  with  blood, 
Wherein  dark  things  were  writ,  hard  to  be  understood. 

The  gallant  but  hapless  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  who 
was  born  in  1552,  during  his  long  imprisonment  com- 
posed some  of  his  terse  and  trenchant  hymns :  here  is 
a  specimen  from  "England's  Antiphon  :"  — 

Rise,  O  my  soul  !  with  thy  desires  to  heaven. 

And,  with  divinest  contemplation,  use 

Thy  time,  where  time's  eternity  is  given, 

And  let  vain  thoughts  no  more  thy  thoughts  abuse, 

But  down  in  midnight  darkness  let  them  lie  ; 

So  live  thy  better,  let  thy  worst  thoughts  die. 

And  thou,  my  soul,  inspired  with  holy  flame, 

View,  and  review,  with  most  regardful  eye. 

That  holy  cross  whence  thy  salvation  came, 

On  which  thy  Saviour,  and  thy  sin  did  die  ; 

For  in  that  sacred  object  is  much  pleasure, 

And  in  that  Saviour  is  thy  life,  thy  treasure. 

To  Thee,  O  Jesu  !  I  direct  mine  eyes. 

To  Thee,  my  hands,  to  Thee,  my  humble  knees, 

To  Thee,  my  heart  shall  offer  sacrifice  : 

To  Thee,  my  thoughts,  who  my  thoughts  only  sees, 

To  Thee,  myself,  myself  and  all,  I  give  ; 

To  Thee  I  die,  to  Thee  I  only  live ! 

The  following  lines  were  written  in  1603,  just  after 
his  condemnation.  They  form  only  the  commence- 
ment of  a  much  longer  medley,  entitled  "The  Pil- 
grimage." 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet, 

My  staffe  of  faith  to  walk  upon, 
My  scrip  of  joye  (immortal  diet !) 

My  bottle  of  salvation, 
My  gown  of  glory,  hope's  true  gage  ; 
And  thus  I  take  my  pilgrimage. 


224  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Some  of  the  tender  and  earnest  numbers  of  South- 
well, the  martyr-monk,  now  are  before  us.  The  pre- 
vailing tone  of  his  poetry  is  somewhat  a  reflex  of  his 
life,  which,  though  short,  was  full  of  sorrow  and  suffer- 
ing. Like  many  other  noble  works  of  which  the  world 
is  justly  proud,  most  of  Southwell's  productions  were 
written  in  prison. 

In  one  of  his  letters  to  a  friend,  he  thus  wrote  from 
his  cell :  "  We  have  sung  the  canticles  of  the  Lord  in 
a  strange  land,  and  in  this  desert  we  have  sucked 
honey  from  the  rock,  and  oil  from  the  hard  stone ;  but 
we  now  sow  the  seed  with  tears,  that  others  may  here- 
after with  joy  carry  in  the  sheaves  to  the  heavenly 
granaries."  His  expressive  lines,  entitled  "Prepara- 
tive to  Prayer,"  are  a  homily  to  all  thoughtful 
minds  :  — 

When  thou  dost  talk  with  God,  —  by  prayer,  I  mean,  — 

Lift  up  pure  hands,  lay  down  all  lust's  desires  ; 
Fix  thoughts  on  heaven,  present  a  conscience  clean  ; 

Since  holy  blame  to  mercy's  throne  aspires, 
Confess  faults'  guilt,  crave  pardon  for  thy  sin, 
Tread  holy  paths,  call  grace  to  guide  therein. 

It  is  the  spirit  with  reverence  must  obey 

Our  Maker's  will,  to  practise  what  He  taught : 

Make  not  the  flesh  thy  counsel  when  thou  pray, 
'Tis  enemy  to  every  virtuous  thought : 

It  is  the  foe  we  daily  feed  and  clothe, 

It  is  the  prison  that  the  soul  doth  loathe. 

Wonderfully  vigorous  and  terse  are  the  following 
selections  :  — 

Not  always  fall  of  leaf,  nor  ever  spring. 
Not  endless  night,  nor  yet  eternal  day  ; 
The  saddest  birds  a  season  find  to  sing, 
The  rougliest  storm  a  calm  may  soon  allay ; 
Thus,  with  succeeding  turns,  God  tempereth  all, 
That  man  may  hope  to  rise,  yet  fear  to  fall. 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  225 

My  conscience  is  my  crown,  contented  thoughts  my  rest, 

My  heart  is  happy  in  itself,  my  bhss  is  in  my  breast. 

Enough,  I  reckon  wealth  ;  a  mean,  the  surest  lot, 

That  lies  too  high  for  base  contempt,  too  low  for  envy's  shot. 

My  wishes  are  but  few,  all  easy  to  fulfil, 

I  make  the  limits  of  my  power  the  bounds  unto  my  will. 

I  have  no  hopes  but  one,  which  is  of  heavenly  reign ; 

Effects  attained,  or  not  desired,  all  lower  hopes  refrain. 

I  feel  no  care  of  coin,  well-doing  is  my  wealth. 

My  mind  to  me  an  empire  is,  while  grace  affordeth  health. 

Spare  diet  is  my  fare,  my  clothes  more  fit  than  fine  ; 

I  know  I  feed  and  clothe  a  foe,  that,  pampered,  would  repine. 

Here  is  another  beautiful  passage  of  his  :  — 

When  words  are  weak,  and  foes  encountering  strong. 
Where  mightier  do  assault  than  do  defend, 

The  feebler  part  puts  up  enforced  wrong, 

And  silent  sees  that  speech  could  not  amend. 

Yet  higher  powers  must  think,  though  they  repine  ; 

When  sun  is  set,  the  little  stars  will  shine. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney,  in  company  with  his  sister,  the 
Countess  of  Pembroke,  made  a  metrical  version  of  the 
Psalms  of  David,  portions  of  which  comprise  some 
fine  passages.      Here  is  an  example  :  — 

O  Lord !  in  me  there  lieth  naught  but  to  Thy  search  revealed  lies  ; 
For  when  I  sit,  Thou  markest  it,  no  less  Thou  notest  when  I  rise  : 
Yea,  closest  closet  of  my  thought  hath  opened  windows  to  thine 
eyes. 

Thou  walkest  with  me  when  I  walk  ; 

When  to  my  bed  for  rest  I  go, 

I  find  Thee  there,  and  everywhere ! 

A  decade  of  years,  and  we  find  another  group  of 
illustrious  names,  —  Lord  Bacon  and  his  contempora- 
ries.    The  prose  of  the  "father  of  modern  inductive 
15 


226      EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

philosophy "  is  replete  with  poetic  beauties ;  but  he 
wrote,  towards  the  close  of  life,  a  paraphrastic  version 
of  seven  of  the  Psalms  of  David,  which  contains  some 
remarkable  lines.  Here  are  passages  from  his  Psalm 
civ.  :  — 

Father  and  King  of  powers  both  high  and  low, 
Whose  sounding  fame  all  creatures  serve  to  blow  j 
My  soul  shall  with  the  rest  strike  up  Thy  praise, 
And  carol  of  Thy  works  and  wondrous  ways. 

I  know  that  He  my  words  will  not  despise  ; 
Thanksgiving  is  to  Him  a  sacrifice  ! 

Giles  Fletcher  (1584-1650)  has  said  much  and  well, 
in  a  single  stanza,  upon  a  theme  of  surpassing  in- 
terest :  — 

Sweet  Eden  was  the  arbor  of  delight, 

Yet  in  its  honey  flowers  our  poison  blew : 
Sad  Gethsemane,  the  bower  of  baleful  night, 
Where  Christ  a  health  of  poison  for  us  drew, 
Yet  all  our  honey  in  that  poison  grew ; 
So  we,  from  sweetest  flower,  could  suck  our  bane, 
And  Christ,  from  bitter  venom,  could  again 
Extract  life  out  of  death,  and  pleasure  out  of  pain  ! 

His  terse  lines  on  "  The  Excellency  of  Christ "  are  a 
characteristic  specimen  of  the  antithetical  style  of  his 
day:  — 

He  is  a  path,  if  any  be  misled  ; 

He  is  a  robe,  if  any  naked  be  ; 

If  any  chance  to  hunger.  He  is  bread  ; 

If  any  be  a  bondman,  He  is  free  ; 

If  any  be  but  weak,  how  strong  is  He  ! 
To  dead  men,  life  He  is  ;  to  sick  men,  health  ; 
To  blind  men,  sight ;  and,  to  the  needy,  wealth  ; 
A  pleasure  without  loss,  a  treasure  without  stealth. 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  227 

There  is  a  calm  the  poor  in  spirit  know, 
That  softens  sorrow  and  that  sweetens  woe  ; 
There  is  a  peace  that  dwells  within  the  breast, 
When  all  without  is  stormy  and  distrest ; 
There  is  a  light  that  gilds  the  darkest  hour, 
When  dangers  thicken,  and  when  tempests  lower : 
That  calm  to  faith  and  hope  and  love  is  given, 
That  light  shines  down  to  man  direct  from  heaven. 

Towards  the  latter  part  of  his  hfe,  he  was  rector 
of  Alderton,  Suffolk,  where,  according  to  quaint  old 
Fuller,  "his  clownish  and  low -parted  parishioners 
(having  nothing  but  their  shoes  high  about  them) 
valued  not  their  pastor  according  to  his  worth,  which 
disposed  him  to  melancholy,  and  hastened  his  dissolu- 
tion."    He  died  about  the  year  1623. 

These  quaint  and  honest  lines  on  Self-control  are 
by  Phineas  Fletcher  :  — 

Ah,  silly  man,  who  dream'st  thy  honor  stands 
In  ruling  others,  not  thyself!     Thy  slaves 
Serve  thee,  and  thou  thy  slaves  ;  in  iron  bands 
Thy  servile  spirit,  pressed  with  wild  passions,  raves. 
Wouldst  thou  live  honored  1  —  clip  ambition's  wing ; 
To  reason's  yoke  thy  furious  passions  bring : 
Thrice  noble  is  the  man  who  of  himself  is  king ! 

Giles  Fletcher  —  who,  with  his  bi other  Phineas, 
were  the  two  most  gifted  followers  of  Spenser  —  wrote 
some  of  the  finest  religious  poems  of  the  Elizabethan 
age.  We  present  this  brief  extract  from  "The  Purple 
Island,"  by  the  latter  :  — 

The  cheerful  lark,  mounting  from  early  bed, 
With  sweet  salutes  awakes  the  drowsy  night ; 

The  earth  she  left,  and  up  to  heaven  is  fled, — 
There  chants  her  Maker's  praises  out  of  sight. 


228  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

While  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  Giles  com- 
posed his  principal  poem,  "Christ's  Victorie,"  from 
which  we  select  the  following :  — 

As  when  the  cheerful  sun,  enlamping  wide, 

Glads  all  the  world  with  his  uprising  ray, 
And  wooes  the  widowed  earth  afresh  to  pride, 

And  paints  her  bosom  with  the  flowery  May, 

Her  silent  sister  steals  him  quite  away ; 
Wrapped  in  a  sable  cloud  from  mortal  eyes. 
The  hasty  stars  at  noon  begin  to  rise ; 
And  headlong  to  his  early  roost  the  sparrow  flies. 

But  soon  as  he  again  disshadowed  is, 

Restoring  the  blind  world  his  blemished  sight. 

As  though  another  day  were  newly  his, 
The  cozened  birds  busily  take  their  flight. 
And  wonder  at  the  shortness  of  the  night : 

So  Mercy  once  again  herself  displays 

Out  from  her  sister's  cloud,  and  open  lays 
Those  sunshine  looks  whose  beams  would  dim  a  thousand  days. 

Among  the  multitudinous  gems  that  sparkle  over 
the  great  dramas  of  Shakspeare,  we  have  but  space 
for  a  few.     Here  they  are  :  — 

Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold  ; 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb,  which  thou  behold'st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubins : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls  ; 
But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 


The  cloud-capt  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve  ; 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind  ! 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  229 

Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity ; 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head. 


'Tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich  ; 

And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds, 

So  honor  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 

What,  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark, 

Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful  ? 

Or  is  the  adder  better  than  the  eel, 

Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eye  ? 

Oh,  no,  good  Kate  !  neither  art  thou  the  worse 

For  this  poor  furniture,  and  mean  array. 


To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow. 

Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 

To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time  ; 

And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 

The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out,  out,  brief  candle ! 

Life's  but  a  walking  shadow  ;  a  poor  player. 

That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage. 

And  then  is  heard  no  more  :  it  is  a  tale 

Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury. 

Signifying  nothing. 


Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 

Fooled  by  those  rebel  powers  that  thee  array. 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within,  and  suffer  dearth. 

Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay  ? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 

Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend  ? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 

Eat  up  thy  charge  ?     Is  this  thy  Body's  end  ? 
Then,  Soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss. 

And  let  that  pine,  to  aggravate  thy  store  ; 
Buy  terms  Divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross  ; 

Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more  : 
So  shalt  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on  men  ; 
And,  Death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying  then ! 


230  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Those  who  are  familiar  with  Izaak  Walton's  charm- 
ing biography  of  Dr.  Donne,  will  remember,  that, 
after  his  troublous,  busy  life,  he  solaced  his  declining 
age  "by  many  divine  sonnets,  and  other  high,  holy, 
and  harmonious  composures."  Among  them,  this 
''heavenly  hymn,  written  on  his  sick-bed:"  — 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun, 

Which  was  my  sin,  though  it  were  done  before  ? 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  through  which  I  run, 
And  do  run  still,  though  still  I  do  deplore  ? 

When  Thou  hast  done,  Thou  hast  not  done,  for  I  have  more. 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin,  which  I  have  won 

Others  to  sin,  and  made  my  sin  their  door  ? 
Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  did  shun 

A  year  or  two,  but  wallowed  in  a  score  ? 
When  Thou  hast  done,  Thou  hast  not  done,  for  I  have  more. 

I  have  a  sin  of  fear,  that,  when  I've  spun 

My  last  thread,  I  shall  perish  on  the  shore  : 
But  swear  by  Thyself,  that,  at  my  death.  Thy  Son 

Shall  shine  as  He  shines  now,  and  heretofore ; 
And  having  done  that.  Thou  hast  done  :  I  fear  no  more  ! 

The  worthy  doctor  caused  this  hymn  to  be  set  to 
solemn  music,  and  to  be  frequently  sung  by  the  chor- 
isters of  St.  Paul's,  at  the  evening  service. 

John  Donne  was  born  in  London,  in  1573.  He  de- 
serves to  be  noted  as  a  worthy  divine,  having  been 
Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  a  learned  man,  and  the  leader  of 
the  so-called  metaphysical  poets  of  England.  His 
life  was  one  of  vicissitude  and  trial.  It  seems  that  he 
was  endowed  with  a  small  salary  and  a  large  family, 
the  inconvenience  of  which  was  not  relieved  by  his 
imprisonment.  Writing  to  his  spouse,  he  once  signed 
himself,  "John  Donne,  undone."     He  left  this  world 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  23 1 

of  trial,  for  one  of  rest,  in  1631,  when  his  mortal  re- 
mains were  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

It  is  of  Dr.  Donne  that  Sir  Henry  Wotton  quaintly 
said,  "That  body,  which  was  once  a  temple  of  the 
Holy  Ghost,  and  is  now  become  a  small  quantity  of 
Christian  dust,  I  shall  see  reanimated." 

The  principal  poem  of  Sir  John  Davies  (1570-1626) 
is  that  on  the  "Immortality  of  the  Soul,"  which  Will- 
mott  designates  "our  first  and  noblest  didactic  poem." 
It  is  a  series  of  philosophical  arguments,  solid  in 
thought  and  unanswerable  in  reasoning,  to  establish 
the  great  and  consoling  truth  of  man's  immortality. 
We  extract  these  lines  :  — 

O  ignorant,  poor  man  !  what  dost  thou  bear 
Locked  up  within  the  casket  of  thy  breast  ? 

What  jewels  and  what  riches  hast  thou  there  ? 
What  heavenly  treasure  in  so  weak  a  chest  ? 

Think  of  her  worth,  and  think  that  God  did  mean 
This  worthy  mind  should  worthy  things  embrace ; 

Blot  not  her  beauties  with  thy  thoughts  unclean, 
Nor  her  dishonor  with  thy  passion  base. 

Kill  not  her  quickening  power  with  surteitings  ; 

Mar  not  her  sense  with  sensuality  ; 
Cast  not  her  serious  wit  on  idle  things  ; 

Make  not  her  free-will  slave  to  vanity. 

Very  good  counsel,  in  a  compact  form,  is  given  us 
in  these  stanzas  by  Thomas  Randolph,  of  this  epoch : 

First  worship  God  :  he  that  forgets  to  pray, 
Bids  not  himself  good  morrow  nor  good  day ; 
Let  thy  first  labor  be  to  purge  thy  sin, 
And  serve  Him  first,  whence  all  things  did  begin. 


232  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

So  live  with  men,  as  if  God's  curious  eye 
Did  everywhere  into  thine  actions  spy ; 
Strive  to  live  well ;  tread  in  the  upright  ways, 
And  rather  count  thy  actions  than  tliy  days. 

Another  fragment  comes  to  us  from  one  Peter 
Heylyn,  on  the  Sacred  Oracles  :  — 

If  thou  art  merry,  here  are  airs  ; 
If  melancholy,  here  are  prayers  ; 
If  studious,  here  are  those  things  writ 
Which  may  deserve  thy  ablest  wit ; 
If  hungry,  here  is  food  divine  ; 
If  thirsty,  nectar,  heavenly  wine. 

Read,  then  ;  but,  first,  thyself  prepare 
To  read  with  zeal  and  mark  with  care  ; 
And  when  thou  read'st  what  here  is  writ, 
Let  thy  best  practice  second  it : 
So  twice  each  precept  read  shall  be,  — 
First,  in  the  book,  and,  next,  in  thee. 

In  Strong,  terse,  and  quaint  measure,  George  San- 
dys, born  1577,  chants  his  appeal  to  the  Saviour, 
written  at  the  Holy  Sepulchre  at  Jerusalem:  — 

Saviour  of  mankind,  Man-Immanuel ! 
Who,  sinless,  died  for  sin  ;  who  vanquished  hell ; 
The  first-fruits  of  the  grave  ;  whose  life  did  give 
Light  to  our  darkness  ;  in  whose  death  we  live,  — 
Oh,  strengthen  Thou  my  faith,  convert  my  will. 
That  mine  may  Thine  obey  !  protect  me  still. 
So  that  the  latter  death  may  not  devour 
My  soul,  sealed  with  Thy  seal ;  so,  in  the  hour 
When  Thou,  whose  body  sanctified  the  tomb, 
Unjustly  judged,  a  glorious  Judge  shall  come, 
To  judge  the  world  with  justice  :  by  that  sign 
I  may  be  known,  and  entertained  for  Thine. 

When  on  his  sick-bed.  Sir  Henry  Wotton  wrote 
some  remarkable  lines,  in  which  he  uses  the  beautiful 
metaphor  of  Christ's  blood  being  the  bath  of  sin  :  — 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  233 

O  Thou  great  Power  !  in  whom  I  move, 

For  whom  I  Hve,  to  whom  I  die, 
Behold  me  through  Thy  beams  of  love, 

Whilst  on  this  couch  of  tears  I  lie  ; 
And  cleanse  my  sordid  soul  within 
By  Thy  Christ's  blood,  the  Bath  of  Sin ! 

No  hallowed  oils,  no  grains,  I  need  ; 

No  rags  of  saints,  no  purging  fire : 
One  rosie  drop  from  David's  seed 

Was  worlds  of  seas  to  quench  Thine  ire. 
Oh,  precious  ransom,  which,  once  paid, 
That  cons7iminatu7n  est  was  said ! 

And  said  by  Him,  that  said  no  more, 
But  sealed  it  with  His  sacred  breath  : 

Thou,  then,  that  hast  discharged  my  score. 
And,  dying,  wast  the  death  of  Death, 

Be  to  me  now  —  on  Thee  I  call  — 

My  life,  my  strength,  my  joy,  my  all. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton,  born  in  1588,  is  recorded  as  one 
of  England's  poets.  He  was  ambassador  at  Venice, 
and  afterwards  Provost  of  Eton  ;  the  friend  of  Izaak 
Walton,  and  an  early  discoverer  of  Milton's  transcen- 
dent merit. 

Here  are  two  of  the  exquisite  sonnets  of  Drummond, 
of  Hawthornden  (1585-1649),  so  much  admired  by 
Milton :  — 

Look  how  the  flower,  which  lingeringly  doth  fade. 
The  morning's  darling  late,  the  summer's  queen. 
Spoiled  of  that  juice  which  kept  it  fresh  and  green, 
As  high  as  it  did  raise,  bows  low  the  head  ; 
Right  so  my  life  (contentments  being  dead, 
Or  in  their  contraries  but  only  seen). 
With  swifter  speed  declines,  than  erst  it  spread, 
And  (blasted)  scarce  now  shows  what  it  hath  been. 
As  doth  the  pilgrim,  therefore,  whom  the  night 
By  darkness  would  imprison  on  his  way. 


234  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Think  on  thy  home,  my  soul,  and  think  aright 
Of  what  yet  rests  thee  of  life's  wasting  day : 
Thy  sun  posts  westward,  passed  is  thy  morn, 
And  twice  it  is  not  given  thee  to  be  bora. 


Sweet  bird,  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hours, 
Of  winters  past  or  coming,  void  of  care ; 
Well  pleased  with  delights  which  present  are, — 

Fair  seasons,  budding  sprays,  sweet-smelling  flowers, — 

To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leafy  bowers, 
Thou  thy  Creator's  goodness  dost  declare, 
And  what  dear  gifts  on  thee  He  did  not  spare, 

A  stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  that  lowers. 
What  soul  can  be  so  sick,  which,  by  thy  songs 

(Attired  in  sweetness)  sweetly  is  not  driven 
Quite  to  forget  earth's  turmoils,  spites,  and  wrongs. 

And  lift  a  reverent  eye  and  thought  to  heaven  ? 
Sweet  artless  songster,  thou  my  mind  dost  raise 
To  airs  of  spheres,  —  yes,  and  to  angels'  lays. 

In  the  year  1588  was  born  the  Puritan  poet  George 
Wither,  who  wrote  numerous  hymns  and  poems,  not- 
able for  their  quiet  simplicity,  rather  than  for  impres- 
siveness  and  force.  These  hymns,  over  three  hun- 
dred in  number,  are  designed  for  an  incredible  vari- 
ety of  subjects,  —  every  season  of  nature  and  of  the 
Church,  and  for  all  imaginable  accidents  of  life.  The 
titles  of  some,  indeed,  border  on  the  ludicrous:  "For 
a  Widower  or  Widow  delivered  from  a  Troublesome 
Yokefellow,"  "For  a  Cripple,"  "For  a  Sailor,"  "For 
a  Poet,"  "For  one  whose  Beauty  is  much  praised," 
"For  one  upbraided  with  Deformity,"  &c. 

Wither's  poem  for  "Anniversary  Marriage-Days" 
was,  doubtless,  suggested  by  his  sentiments  of  devoted 
attachment  to  his  wife  :  — 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  235 

Lord,  living  here  are  we,  as  fast  united  yet, 
As  when  our  hands  and  hearts  by  Thee  together  first  were  knit ; 

And  in  a  thankful  song  now  sing  we  will  Thy  praise, 
For  that  Thou  dost  as  well  prolong  our  loving,  as  our  days. 

Wither's  "Rocking  Hymn"  has  outlived  its  author, 
as  well  as  the  storms  that  beset  his  latter  days.  But, 
turning  from  the  lullaby  to  its  writer,  we  notice  that 
his  portrait  has  come  down  to  us,  surrounded  by  the - 
quaint  motto,  "  I  grow  and  wither,  both  together."  His 
career  was  eventful  and  changeful,  for  he  lived  in 
troublous  times,  —  more  storm-cloud  than  sunshine 
seemed  to  have  been  his  earthl}^  portion ;  but,  amidst 
his  sorrows  and  sufferings,  his  Muse  oft  beguiled  and 
solaced  his  sorely  tried  spirit.  His  best  pieces  were 
penned  in  prison.  One  more  extract  from  this  source 
must  suffice  :  — 

THE   MARIGOLD. 

When  with  a  serious  musing  I  behold 

The  graceful  and  obsequious  Marigold,  — 

How  duly,  every  morning,  she  displays 

Her  open  breast  when  Phoebus  spreads  his  rays  ; 

How  she  observes  him  in  his  daily  walk. 

Still  bending  towards  him  her  small  slender  stalk  ; 

How,  when  he  down  declines,  she  droops  and  mourns, 

Bedewed,  as  'twere,  with  tears,  till  he  returns  ; 

And  how  she  veils  her  flowers  when  he  is  gone. 

As  if  she  scorned  to  be  looked  upon 

By  an  inferior  eye,  or  did  contemn 

To  wait  upon  a  meaner  light  than  him  : 

When  this  I  meditate,  methinks  the  flowers 

Have  spirits  far  more  generous  than  ours, 

And  give  us  fair  examples,  to  despise 

The  servile  fawnings  and  idolatries, 

Wherewith  we  court  these  earthly  things  below, 

Which  merit  not  the  service  we  bestow. 


236  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Robert  Herrick,  whose  anacreonic  poems  have  given 
him  fame  with  the  world  at  large,  deserves,  also,  to  be 
placed  in  the  category  of  religious  poets,  for  his  later 
contributions  to  our  Christian  anthology,  which  de- 
serve the  title  originally  given  to  them, — "Noble 
Numbers."  In  the  year  1648,  when  he  was  fifty- 
seven  years  of  age,  he  was  ejected  from  his  living  on 
account  of  his  adhesion  to  the  Royalist  cause.  "In  a 
good  many  of  his  poems,  he  touches  the  heart  of 
truth ;  in  others,  even  those  of  epigrammatic  form,  he 
must  be  allowed  to  fail  in  point  as  well  as  in  meaning. 
But  his  verses  are  brightened  by  a  certain  almost 
childishly  quaint  and  innocent  humor."  *  His  exquis- 
ite Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit  commences,  — 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress, 
When  temptations  me  oppress, 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  I  lie  within  my  bed. 
Sick  at  heart  and  sick  in  head. 
And  with  thoughts  discomforted, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
And  the  world  is  drowned  in  sleep, 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  tapers  now  burn  blue. 
And  the  comforters  are  few. 
And  that  number  more  than  true, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  priest  his  last  hath  prayed. 
And  I  nod  to  what  is  said. 
Because  my  speech  is  now  decayed, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

•  England's  Antiphon. 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  237 

Herrick's  lyrics  to  Primroses  and  Daffodils  are 
known  to  all  lovers  of  true  poetry,  as,  indeed,  are 
his  chastely  beautiful  lines  to  Blossoms  :  — 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree,  why  do  ye  fall  so  fast  ? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile  to  blush  and  gently  smile, 

And  go  at  last. 
What,  were  ye  born  to  be  an  hour  or  half's  delight, 

And  so  to  bid  good-night  ? 
'Tis  pity  nature  brought  ye  forth,  merely  to  show  your  worth, 

And  lose  you  quite. 
But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we  may  read  how  soon  things  have 

Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave  ; 
And,  after  they  have  shown  their  pride,  like  you,  awhile,  they  glide 

Into  the  grave. 

We  subjoin  a  few  of  his  striking  epigrams,  —  gems 
without  the  setting  :  — 

God's  rod  doth  watch  while  men  do  sleep ;  and  then 
The  rod  doth  sleep  while  vigilant  are  men. 


A  man's  transgression  God  does  then  remit, 
When  man  He  makes  a  penitent  for  it. 


Humble  we  must  be,  if  to  heaven  we  go  : 
High  is  the  roof  there,  but  the  gate  is  low. 


Heaven  is  not  given  for  our  good  works  here  ; 
Yet  it  is  given  to  the  laborer. 

Henry  King,  who  was  Bishop  of  Rochester  in  the 
reign  of  Charles  II.,  wrote  a  remarkable  poem  on 
the  death  of  his  wife,  which  has  often  been  quoted 
as  a  most  finished  specimen  of  elegiac  poetry  :  — 


238  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Accept,  thou  shrine  of  my  dead  saint, 

Instead  of  dirges,  this  complaint ; 

And  for  sweet  flowers  to  crown  thy  hearse, 

Receive  a  strew  of  weeping  verse. 

From  thy  grieved  friend,  whom  thou  might'st  see 

Quite  melted  into  tears  for  thee  ! 

Quaint  old  Quarles,  who  lived  a.d.  1592-1644, 
is  known  to  students  by  his  "  Emblems,"  and  his 
"Enchiridion,"  as  well  as  his  religious  verse,  which, 
to  our  modern  ear,  sounds  somewhat  inharmonious. 
It  is,  however,  forceful  and  significant.  He  was  a 
devout  and  worthy  man ;  and,  in  his  closing  hours, 
delivered  some  excellent  counsel  to  his  friends,  wish- 
ing them  "to  have  a  care  of  the  expense  of  their  time, 
and  every  day  to  call  themselves  to  an  account."  He 
expressed  great  sorrow  for  his  sins ;  and,  when  it  was 
told  him  that  he  did  himself  much  harm  thereby,  he 
replied,  "They  be  not  my  friends  who  deny  me  leave 
to  be  penitent."  His  penitence,  he  well  knew,  was 
the  best  preparative  for  a  peaceful  and  happy  death ; 
and  such  was  his.  His  brief  but  well-spent  life  is 
fruitful  of  instruction.  Such  was  the  charm  of  his 
conversation,  that  it  was  said  to  "  distil  pleasure, 
•  knowledge,  and  virtue  on  all  who  shared  his  friend- 
ship." Despite  his  occasional  obscurity,  and  the 
ruggedness  of  his  measures,  his  poetry  abounds  with 
noble  thoughts.     We  cull  a  few  extracts :  — 

Farewell,  ye  gilded  follies,  pleasing  troubles  ; 
Farewell,  ye  honored  rags,  ye  glorious  bubbles  ! 
Fame's  but  a  hollow  echo  ;  gold,  pure  clay ; 
Honor,  the  darling  but  of  one  short  day  ; 
Beauty,  tlie  eye's  idol,  but  a  damasked  skin  ; 
State,  but  a  golden  prison  to  live  in. 
And  torture  free-born  minds  ;  embroidered  trains. 
Merely  but  pageants  for  proud-swelling  veins  ; 


EARLY    ENGLISH. 

And  blood  allied  to  greatness,  is  alone 

Inherited,  not  purchased,  nor  our  own  : 

Fame,  honor,  beauty,  State,  train,  blood,  and  birth 

Are  but  the  fading  blossoms  of  the  earth. 

Welcome,  pure  thoughts  ;  welcome,  ye  silent  groves  ; 

These  guests,  these  courts,  my  soul  most  dearly  loves 

Now  the  winged  people  of  the  sky  shall  sing 

My  cheerful  anthems  to  the  gladsome  spring : 

A  prayer-book  now  shall  be  my  looking-glass, 

In  which  I  will  adore  sweet  virtue's  face. 


239 


I  love  (and  have  some  cause  to  love)  the  earth  ; 
She  is  my  Maker's  creature,  therefore  good  ; 
She  is  my  mother,  for  she  gave  me  birth  ; 
She  is  my  tender  nurse,  she  gave  me  food  ; 

But  what's  a  creature.  Lord,  compared  with  Thee  ? 

I  love  the  air  ;  her  dainty  sweets  refresh 
My  drooping  soul,  and  to  new  sweets  invite  me  ; 
Her  shrill-mouthed  choir  sustain  me  with  their  flesh 
And  with  their  polyphonian  notes  delight  me  ; 
But  what's  the  air  or  all  the  sweets  that  she 
Can  bless  my  soul  withal,  compared  to  Thee 

To  heaven's  high  city  I  direct  my  journey, 
Whose  spangled  suburbs  entertain  mine  eye : 
Mine  eye,  by  contemplation's  great  attorney. 
Transcends  the  crystal  pavement  of  the  sky  ; 

But  what  is  heaven,  great  God,  compared  to  Thee  ? 

Without  Thy  presence  heaven's  no  heaven  to  me. 


And  what's  a  life  ?     A  weary  pilgrimage, 
Whose  glory  in  one  day  doth  fill  the  stage 
With  childhood,  manhood,  and  decrepid  age. 
And  what's  a  life  ?     The  flourishing  array 
Of  the  proud  summer  meadow,  which  to-day 
Wears  her  green  flush,  and  is,  to-morrow,  hay. 

"Enter,   right  welcome   and   thrice-honored    George 
Herbert,    rector    of  Bemerton,     and    minstrel    of   the 


240  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Church  Catholic !  Thou  dost,  indeed,  nobly  sustain 
the  illustrious  line  of  succession  of  England's  church 
worthies.  George  Herbert,  who  was  not  only  a  fa- 
vorite with  his  contemporaries,  —  Bishop  Andrews, 
Dr.  Donne,  and  Lord  Bacon, — but  also  of  his  affec- 
tionate biographer,  "honest  Izaak  Walton,"  and  a 
host  of  others  in  succession,  was  born  in  1593, 
and  died  of  consumption  in  1632,  in  the  meridian 
of  his  days.  He  took  orders,  was  married,  and,  after 
a  few  years,  was  presented  with  the  living  of  Bemer- 
ton,  near  Salisbury,  into  which  he  was  inducted  in 
1630,  —  too  short  an  interval,  yet  how  well  improved, 
albeit  his  work  but  half  done.  This  pious  parish 
priest  was  a  spare,  gaunt  personage,  his  face  long 
and  sharp- featured,  and  yet  his  aspect  cheerful  and 
"his  speech  and  motion  did  both  declare  him  a  gen- 
tleman ;  for  they  were  all  so  meek  and  obliging,  that 
they  purchased  love  and  respect  from  all  that  knew 
him.  Of  a  stature  inclining  towards  tallness,  his  body 
was  very  straight,  and,  so  far  from  being  cumbered 
with  too  much  flesh,  he  was  lean  to  an  extremity." 
Referring  to  his  priestly  office,  he  quaintly  remarks  : 
"I  am  so  proud  of  His  service,  that  I  will  always 
observe  and  obey  and  do  His  will,  and  always  call 
Him  'Jesus,  my  Master;'  and  I  will  always  con- 
temn my  birth,  or  any  title  or  dignity  that  can  be 
conferred  upon  me,  when  I  shall  compare  them  with 
my  title  of  being  a  priest,  and  serving  at  the  altar  of 
Jesus,  my  Master."  "And  that  he  did  so,"  continues 
Walton,  "  may  appear  in  many  parts  of  his  book  of 
Sacred  Poems ;  especially  in  that  which  he  calls  '  The 
Odour,'  in  which  he  seems  to  rejoice  in  the  thought 
of  that  word  Jesus,  and  to  say,  that  the  adding  these 


EARLY    ENGLISH. 


241 


words,  'my  Master,' to  it,  and  the  often  repetition  of 
them,  seerned  to  perfume  his  mind,  and  leave  an  ori- 
ental fragrance  in  his  veiy  breath." 

This  godly  man  was  so  passionately  fond  of  music, 
that  he  was  accustomed,  twice  a  week,  to  walk  to 
Salisbury  Cathedral,  to  attend  divine  service;  and, 
on  his  return,  would  say  "that  his  time  spent  in 
prayer,  and  cathedral-music,  elevated  his  soul,  and 
was  his  heaven  upon  earth."  He  would  often  also 
say,  "Religion  does  not  banish  mirth,  but  only  mod- 
erates and  sets  rules  to  it."  His  death  was  as  beauti- 
ful, peaceful,  and,  may  we  not  add,  picturesque,  as 
his  brief  Hfe  had  been.  The  Sunday  preceding  his 
decease,  he  rose  suddenly  from  his  couch,  called  for 
one  of  his  instruments,  and,  having  tuned  it,  played 
and  sung  one  of  his  own  stanzas  :  — 

The  Sundays  of  man's  life, 
Threaded  together  on  Time's  string, 

Make  bracelets  to  adorn  the  wife 
Of  the  eternal  glorious  King ; 

On  Sundays,  heaven's  door  stands  ope  ; 
Blessings  are  plentiful  and  rife ; 

More  plentiful  than  hope. 

"Thus,"  adds  his  biographer,  "he  sang  on  earth 
such  hymns  and  anthems  as  the  angels  and  he  and 
Mr.  Ferrar  now  sing  in  heaven  ! " 

"  All  must  to  their  cold  graves ; 
But  the  religious  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  in  death,  and  blossom  in  the  dust." 

Walton  relates  an  anecdote  of  one  of  his  walks  to 
Salisbury.  When  Herbert  was  some  way  on  his  jour- 
ney, he  overtook  a  poor  man,  standing  by  a  "poorer 


242  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

horse,"  that  had  fallen  down  beneath  too  ht-^yy  a 
burden  ;  and,  seeing  the  distress  of  the  one,  and  the 
suffering  of  the  other,  he  put  off  his  canonical  dress, 
and  helped  the  man  to  unload,  and,  afterwards,  to 
reload  the  horse.  Then  giving  him  money  to  refresh 
himself  and  the  animal,  he  departed,  at  the  same  tim' 
telling  him,  that,  if  he  loved  himself,  he  should  b. 
merciful  to  his  beast.  This  incident  afforded  a  subjec 
to  the  Royal  Academician,  Cooper,  for  an  interesting 
picture. 

The  history  of  his  poems  is  most  touching  and 
beautiful.  In  his  last  sickness,  he  presented  them  to 
a  friend,  in  these  words  :  "Sir,  I  pray  deliver  this  little 
book  to  my  dear  brother  Ferrar,  and  tell  him, he  shall 
find  in  it  a  picture  of  the  many  spiritual  conflicts  that 
have  passsed  betwixt  God  and  my  soul,  before  I  could 
subject  mine  to  the  will  of  Jesus  my  Master ;  in  whose 
service  I  have  now  found  perfect  freedom.  Desire  him 
to  read  it ;  and  then,  if  he  can  think  it  may  turn  to  the 
advantage  of  any  poor,  dejected  soul,  let  it  be  made 
public ;  if  not,  let  him  burn  it,  for  I,  and  it,  are  less 
than  the  least  of  God's  mercies." 

Baxter's  opinion  of  Herbert's  poems  was  a  high  one. 
"I  confess,"  he  sa3^s,  "that  next  to  the  Scripture 
poems,  there  are  none  so  savory  to  me  as  Mr. 
George  Herbert's,  because  he  speaks  to  God,  like  a 
man  that  really  believeth  in  God,  and  whose  business 
in  the  world  is  most  with  God ;  heart-work  and 
heaven-work  make  up  his  books." 

Willmott,  with  a  loving  spirit,  adds  also  a  like 
tribute  to  his  consecrated  Muse ;  summing  up  in  the 
words  of  Walton's  quaint  eulogy,  the  reading  of  which 
will  "still  keep  those  sacred  fires  burning  upon  the 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  243 

altar  of  so  pure  a  heart  as  shall  free  it  from  the  anxi- 
eties of  this  world,  and  keep  it  fixed  upon  things  that 
are  above." 

His  sacred  melodies  are  ever  instinct  with  spiritual 
life  and  power  to  the  Christian ;  while  their  homely 
quaintness,  strange  conceits,  and  rich  arabesque  effect 
no  less  endear  them  to  the  lover  of  lyrical  art.  It 
has  been  justly  remarked  that  "the  divine  mind  of 
Herbert  was  ever  tending  to  seek  God  everywhere 
and  in  every  thing ;  no  writer  before  him  has  shown 
such  a  love  to  God,  —  such  a  childlike  confidence  in 
Him."     When  recovering  from  sickness,  he  sings,  — 

And  now  in  age  I  bud  again ; 
After  so  many  deaths,  I  live  and  write  ; 

I  once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain, 
And  relish  versing.     Oh,  my  only  Light ! 

It  cannot  be,  that  I  am  he 
On  whom  Thy  tempests  fell  all  night ! 

One  of  his  characteristic  pieces  is  entitled  "Man's 

Medley:"  — 

In  soul,  he  mounts  and  flies  ;  in  flesh,  he  dies  ! 

He  wears  a  stuff,  whose  thread  is  coarse  and  round. 

But  trimmed  with  curious  lace, 

And  should  take  place 

After  the  trimming,  not  the  stuff  and  ground  : 

Not  that  he  may  not  here 

Taste  of  the  cheer  ; 

But  as  buds  drink,  and  straight  lift  up  their  head, 

So  must  he  sip,  and  think  of  better  drink 

He  may  attain  to  after  he  is  dead. 

He  taught  the  noble  truth  that  a  man  is  what  he  is 
in  himself,  not  what  the  world  may  consider  him 
from  the  accident  of  birth  or  circumstances.  Hear 
him  asfain  :  — 


244     EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Teach  me,  my  Lord  and  King !  in  all  things  Thee  to  see  ; 

And  what  I  do  in  any  thing,  to  do  it  as  for  Thee. 

Ail  may  of  Thee  partake,  nothing  can  be  so  mean, 

But  for  this  tincture  (for  Thy  sake)  will  not  grow  bright  and  clean. 

This  is  the  famous  stone,  that  turneth  all  to  gold ; 

For  that  which  God  doth  touch  and  own,  cannot  for  less  be  told. 


O  day  most  calm,  most  bright ! 
The  fruit  of  this,  the  next  world's  bud ; 

The  endorsement  of  supreme  delight, 
Writ  by  a  Friend,  and  with  His  blood  ! 

The  couch  of  Time,  care's  balm  and  bay ! 
The  week  were  dark,  but  for  Thy  light : 

Thy  torch  doth  show  the  way. 

Sundays  the  pillars  are, 
On  which  heaven's  palace  arched  lies ; 

The  other  days  fill  up  the  spare 
And  hollow  room  with  vanities. 

They  are  the  fruitful  beds  and  borders 
Of  God's  rich  garden  :  that  is  bare 

Which  parts  their  ranks  and  orders. 

Thou  art  a  day  of  mirth  ; 
And  where  the  week-days  trail  on  ground, 

Thy  flight  is  higher,  as  thy  birth. 
Oh,  let  me  take  thee  at  the  bound. 

Leaping  with  thee  from  seven  to  seven, 
Till  that  we  both,  being  tossed  from  earth, 

Fly  hand  in  hand  to  heaven  ! 


In  time  of  service  seal  up  both  thine  eyes, 
And  send  them  to  thy  heart ;  that,  spying  sin, 

They  may  weep  out  the  stains  by  them  did  rise ; 
Those  doors  being  shut,  all^by  the  ear  comes  in. 

Who  marks  in  church-time  others'  symmetry, 

Makes  all  their  beauty  his  deformity. 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  245 

Sweet  Peace,  where  dost  thou  dwell  ?     I  humbly  crave 

Let  me  once  know. 
I  sought  thee  in  a  secret  cave, 

And  asked  if  peace  were  there, 
A  hollow  wind  did  seem  to  answer,  "  No  ! 

Go  seek  elsewhere." 

I  did  ;  and,  going,  did  a  rainbow  note  : 

Surely,  thought  I, 
This  is  the  lace  of  Peace's  coat : 

I  will  search  out  the  matter. 
But  while  I  looked,  the  clouds  immediately 

Did  break  and  scatter. 

Then  I  went  to  a  garden,  and  did  spy 

A  gallant  flower, 
The  crown  imperial.     "  Sure,"  said  I, 

"  Peace  at  the  root  must  dwell." 
But  when  I  digged,  I  saw  a  worm  devour 

What  showed  so  well. 

At  length  I  met  a  reverent  good  old  man  ; 

Whom  when  for  peace 
I  did  demand,  he  thus  began  : 

"  There  was  a  prince  of  old 
At  Salem  dwelt,  who  lived  with  good  increase 

Of  flock  and  fold." 


Lord,  with  what  care  hast  Thou  begirt  us  round ! 

Parents  first  season  us  ;  then  schoolmasters 
Deliver  us  to  laws  ;  they  send  us  bound 

To  rules  of  reason,  holy  messengers, 

Pulpits  and  Sundays,  sorrow  dogging  sin, 
Afflictions  sorted,  anguish  of  all  sizes, 

Fine  nets  and  stratagems  to  catch  us  in, 
Bibles  laid  open,  millions  of  surprises, 

Blessings  beforehand,  ties  of  gratefulness, 
The  sound  of  glory  ringing  in  our  ears; 

Without,  our  shame  ;  within,  our  consciences  ; 
Angels  and  grace,  eternal  hopes  and  fears : 


246  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Yet  all  these  fences,  and  their  whole  array, 
One  cunning  bosom-sin  blows  quite  away. 


Sweet  day  !  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky ; 
The  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose  !  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 

Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye ; 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave  ; 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring  !  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses ; 

A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie  ; 
Thy  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes  ; 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives  ; 
But,  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal. 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


When  God  at  first  made  man. 
Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by,  — 
Let  us  (said  He)  pour  on  him  all  we  can : 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 

Contract  into  a  span. 

So  strength  first  made  a  way  ; 
Then  beauty  flowed,  then  wisdom,  honor,  pleasure; 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay. 
Perceiving  that  alone,  of  all  His  treasure. 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

For  if  I  should  (said  He) 
Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  creature, 
He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of  me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature  : 

So  both  should  losers  be. 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest. 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness  : 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least. 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  my  breast. 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  247 

''A  man  must  be  a  giant,  like  Shakspeare  or  Milton, 
to  cast  off  his  age's  faults.  Indeed,  no  man  has  more 
of  the  'quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles'  of  the 
poetic  spirit  of  his  time  than  George  Herbert,  but  with 
this  difference  from  the  rest  of  Dr.  Donne's  school, 
that  such  is  the  indwelling  potency,  that  it  causes 
even  these  to  shine  with  a  radiance  such  that  we  wish 
them  still  to  burn  and  not  be  consumed.  We  could 
not  bear  to  part  with  his  most  fantastic  oddities :  they 
are  so  interpenetrated  with  his  genius  as  well  as  his 
art."  * 

We  confess  we  linger  with  a  loving  reverence  about 
this  saintly  singer ;  and,  in  imagination,  would  seek 
out  and  fondly  gaze  upon  the  little  church  that  has 
become  hallowed  to  us  by  the  sweet  memories  of 
Herbert  and  Norris.  The  name  of  Norris  is  now 
seldom  heard,  even  in  the  retirement  of  the  scholar; 
but  Willmott  has  not  ignored  him :  on  the  contrary, 
has  devoted  a  delightful  chapter  to  his  memory. 
Norris  was  born  in  1657,  and,  in  1691,  obtained  the 
living  of  Bemerton,  which  he  held  for  twenty  years, 
and  died  in  171 1,  in  the  fifty-fourth  year  of  his  age, 
having  exhausted  his  strength  by  intense  application 
and  long  habits  of  severe  reasoning.  On  the  south 
side  of  Bemerton  Church,  a  marble  tablet  commem- 
orates his  piety  and  his  genius.  The  words  of  the 
epitaph  are  melancholy,  yet  appropriate  :  Bene  latuit. 
"  Here  he  lay,  concealed  from  the  pomp  and  vanity 
of  life;  here  he  sent  up  daily,  to  the  gijite  of  heaven, 
the  music  of  a  gentle  and  contented  heart !  The 
old  and  tranquil  parsonage  was,  to  him,  a  happ}' 
hiding-place."     We  present  one  stanza  of  his  poem, 

•  England's  Antiphon. 


24S         p:venings  with  the  sacred  poets. 

entitled   "The  Parting,"   which  is  remarkably   beau- 
tiful :  — 

How  fading  are  the  joys  we  dote  upon, 
Like  apparitions  seen  and  gone  ; 

But  those  who  soonest  talce  their  flight. 
Are  the  most  exquisite  and  strong, 

Like  angels'  visits  short  and  bright ; 
Mortahty's  too  weak  to  bear  them  long. 

"The  exquisite  comparison  of  human  joys  to  the 
visits  of  angels,  after  having  been  engrafted  into 
'The  Grave,'  of  Blair,  was  transferred  by  Campbell 
to  the  'Pleasures  of  Hope,'  and  has  now  passed  into 
a  poetical  proverb  ;  but  the  beauty  of  the  image  be- 
longs to  Norris." 

Edmund  Waller,  whose  mother  was  the  sister  of 
John  Hampden  and  cousin  to  Oliver  Cromwell,  al- 
though a  member  of  the  Parliament,  was  a  royalist 
at  heart ;  for,  being  implicated  in  a  plot  on  behalf  of 
the  king,  he  was  exiled  ten  years,  and  fined  ten 
thousand  pounds.  These  beautiful  lines  were,  it  is 
believed,  the  last  he  ever  penned :  — 

The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  giv-e  o'er, 
So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no  more  ! 
For  then  we  know  how  vain  it  is  to  boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  so  certain  to  be  lost. 

Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger  eyes 
Conceal  that  emptiness  which  age  descries : 
The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed, 
Lets  in  new  light  through  chinks  that  time  has  made. 

Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home  ; 
Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view, 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  249 

Izaak  Walton,  who  wielded  pen  and  fishing-rod 
with  equal  love  and  skill,  was  born  at  Stafford,  in 
1593.  His  "Angler"  is  redolent  of  sweet  country 
air  and  wild  flowers  :  it  is  a  prose  poem,  and,  like 
"The  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  must  ever  live.  He  died  at 
the  ripe  age  of  ninety,  in  1683.  We  owe  a  large  debt 
of  gratitude  to  Izaak  Walton  for  the  portraitures  of 
Donne,  Herbert,  Hooker,  and  others,  he  has  sketched 
so  minutely.  If  we  think  of  him  more  often  by  his 
"Angler,"  it  is  because  that  is  the  book  that  comes 
home  to  the  hearts  and  bosoms,  not  of  all  anglers 
merely,  but  of  all  thinkers.  It  is  a  pleasant  pastoral, 
babbling,  like  the  sequestered  streams  it  tells  about, 
very  musically,  and  very  ramblingly. 

We  cite  a  prose  passage,  at  random,  from  his 
"Angler,"  which  is  as  good  as  many  a  poetical  one 
that  passes  current,  if  not  much  better :  — 

"  Well,  scholar,  having  now  taught  you  to  paint  your  rod,  and  we 
having  still  a  mile  to  Tottenham  High-Cross,  I  will,  as  we  walk 
towards  it,  in  the  cool  shade  of  this  sweet  honeysuckle  hedge, 
mention  to  you  some  of  the  thoughts  and  joys  that  have  possessed 
my  soul  since  we  two  met  together.  That  you  may  also  join  with 
me,  in  thankfulness  to  the  Giver  of  every  good  and  perfect  gift,  for 
our  happiness.  ,  .  .  Every  misery  that  I  miss  is  a  new  mercy,  and 
therefore  let  us  be  thankful.  There  have  been,  since  we  met,  others 
that  have  met  disasters  of  broken  limbs,  and  many  other  miseries 
that  threaten  human  nature ;  let  us,  therefore,  rejoice  and  be  thank- 
ful. We  are  free  from  the  unsupportable  burden  of  an  accusing 
conscience,  —  a  misery  that  none  can  bear;  therefore,  let  us  praise 
Him  for  His  preventing  grace.  ...  Let  me  tell  you,  scholar,  I  have 
a  rich  neighbor  that  is  always  so  busy,  that  he  has  no  leisure  to 
laugh ;  the  whole  business  of  his  Hfe  is  to  get  money,  more  money ! 
Yet  it  was  wisely  said  by  one  of  great  observation  :  '  That  there  be 
as  many  miseries  beyond  riches,  as  on  this  side  of  them.'  Let 
us  not  repine,  or  so  much  as  think  the  gifts  of  God  unequally 
dealt,  if  we  see  another  abound  with  riches  :  we  see  but  the  out- 


2^0  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRKD    POETS. 

side  of  the  rich  man's  happiness  ;  but  let  us  be  thankful  for  health 
and  a  competence,  and,  above  all,  for  a  quiet  conscience." 

Take  another  little  homily  of  his  :  — 

"Affliction  is  a  divine  diet,  which,  though  it  be  not  pleasing  to 
mankind,  yet  Almighty  God  hath  often,  very  often,  imposed  it  as 
good  though  bitter  physic  to  those  children  whose  souls  are  lear- 
est  unto  Him." 

Crashaw,  who  wrote  "Steps  to  the  Temple"  —  a 
series  of  sacred  poems  —  "for  Happy  Souls  to  climb 
Heaven  by,"  wrote  also  some  fine  lines  on  a  Prayer- 
book,  which  Coleridge  thought  were  among  the  finest 
in  the  realm  of  sacred  song.  We  annex  an  extract 
from  the  poem,  although,  fully  to  appreciate  its  spirit- 
ual beauty,  it  should  be  read  entire. 

It  is,  in  one  choice  handful,  heaven,  and  all 

Heaven's  royal  hosts  encamped  thus  small ; 

To  prove  that  true,  schools  used  to  tell, 

A  thousand  angels  in  one  point  can  dwell. 

It  is  love's  great  artillery. 

Which  here  contracts  itself,  and  comes  to  lie. 

Close  couched  in  your  white  bosom,  and  from  thence, 

As  from  a  snowy  fortress  of  defence, 

Against  your  ghostly  foe  to  take  your  part, 

And  fortify  the  hold  of  your  chaste  heart. 

It  is  an  armory  of  light ; 

Let  constant  use  but  keep  it  bright, 

You'll  find  it  yields. 
To  holy  hands  and  humble  hearts, 

More  swords  and  shields 
Than  sin  hath  snares  or  hell  hath  darts. 

Only  be  sure 

The  hands  be  pure 
That  hold  these  weapons,  and  the  eyes 

Those  of  turtles,  chaste  and  true, 
Wakeful  and  wise. 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  25 1 

Dear  soul,  be  strong  : 

Mercy  will  come  ere  long, 
And  bring  her  bosom  full  of  blessings,  — 

Flowers  of  never-fading  graces  ; 
To  make  immortal  dressings 

For  worthy  souls,  whose  wise  embraces 
Store  up  themselves  for  Him  who  is  alone 
The  Spouse  of  virgins,  and  the  Virgin's  Son  ! 

Here  is  a  beautiful  stanza  from  his  "  Hymn  to  the 

Nativity  : "  — 

Welcome  to  our  wandering  sight ! 

Eternity  shut  in  a  span  ! 
Summer  in  winter,  day  in  night ! 

Heaven  in  earth,  and  God  in  man  ! 
Great  Little  One,  whose  glorious  birth 

Lifts  earth  to  heaven,  stoops  heaven  to  earth. 

Crashaw,  who  was  born,  it  is  beheved,  in  the  year 
of  Shakspeare's  death,  has  been  compared  with  Shel- 
ley and  Keats  for  the  music  and  delicacy  of  his  verse. 
It  has  been,  indeed,  objected  to  his  poetry,  that  it  is 
too  redolent  of  imagery,  and  too  "fantastically  beauti- 
ful." We  present  one  of  his  "  Divine  Epigrams,"  which 
is  excellent :  — 

Two  went  to  pray  ?     Oh,  rather  say, 
One  went  to  brag,  the  other  to  pray : 
One  stands  up  close,  and  treads  on  high, 
Where  the  other  dares  not  lend  his  eye : 
One  nearer  to  God's  altar  trod, 
The  other  to  the  altar's  God. 

Jeremy  Taylor,  who  has  been  styled  our  "  Shak- 
speare  in  Theology,"  was  born  in  the  year  1613. 
Although  his  prose  is  more  poetic  than  his  verse,  he 
yet  wrote  some  short  lyrics  and  hymns.  Here  is  his 
melody  for  Christmas  :  — 


252  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  come  away : 

Put  on  thy  best  array. 

Lest,  if  thou  longer  stay, 
Thou  lose  some  minutes  of  so  blest  a  day. 

He  that  begirt  each  zone. 

To  wham  both  poles  are  one, 

Who  grasped  the  zodiac  in  His  hand, 

And  made  it  move  or  stand. 

Is  now,  by  nature,  Man  ! 

By  stature  but  a  span  ; 

Eternity  is  now  grown  short ; 

A  King  is  born  without  a  court ; 

The  water  thirsts,  the  fountain's  dry  ; 

And  life,  being  born,  made  apt  to  die  ! 

He  shared  the  tribulations  of  his  time  :  fine  and  im- 
prisonment fell  heavily  upon  him  at  various  times 
during  the  ascendency  of  the  Puritans,  against  whom 
he  spoke  and  wrote  very  strongly.  He  died  1667. 
"It  is  good,"  are  the  words  of  Bishop  Taylor,  "that 
we  transplant  the  instruments  of  fancy  into  religion ; 
and,  for  this  reason,  music  was  brought  into  churches, 
and  comely  garments  and  solemnities,  that  the  wan- 
dering eye  and  heart  may  be  bribed,  and  may  so  be 
disposed  to  cherish  a  more  spiritual  affection." 

Love,  on  the  Saviour's  dying  head, 

Her  spikenard  drops,  unblamed,  may  pour  ; 
May  mount  His  cross,  and  wrap  Him  dead 
In  spices  from  the  golden  shore  ; 
Risen,  may  embalm  His  sacred  name 
With  all  a  painter's  art,  and  all  a  minstrel's  flame  !  * 

He  wrote  the  following  nervous  lines,  entitled  "The 
Offering : "  — 

•  Christian  Year. 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  253 

They  gave  to  Thee 

Myrrh,  frankincense,  and  gold  ; 
But,  Lord,  with  what  shall  we 
Present  ourselves  before  Thy  majesty, 

Whom  Thou  redeemedst  when  we  were  sold  ? 
We've  nothing  but  ourselves,  and  scarce  that  neither,  — 
Vile  dirt  and  clay  ; 
Yet  it  is  soft,  and  may  impression  take. 
Accept  it.  Lord,  and  say,  this  Thou  hadst  rather ; 
Stamp  it,  and  on  this  sordid  metal  make 
Thy  holy  image,  and  it  shall  outshine 
The  beauty  of  the  golden  mine.     Amen. 

How  grandly  Habington's  lines  on  the  Firmament 
commence  !  listen  :  — 

When  I  survey  the  bright  celestial  sphere 

So  rich  with  jewels  hung,  that  night 
Doth  like  an  Ethiop  bride  appear, 
My  soul  her  wings  doth  spread,  and  heavenward  flies, 
The  Almighty's  mysteries  to  read 
In  the  large  volume  of  the  skies  ! 
For  the  bright  firmament  shoots  forth  no  flame 
So  silent,  but  is  eloquent 
In  speaking  the  Creator's  name. 
No  unregarded  star  contracts  its  light 
Into  so  small  a  character, 
Removed  far  from  our  human  sight, 
But,  if  we  steadfast  look,  we  shall  discern 

In  it,  as  in  some  holy  book, 
How  man  may  heavenly  knowledge  learn. 

Shirley,   the   latest  of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists, 
is  the  author  of  this  grand  dirge :  — 

The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 
Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things  ; 

There  is  no  armor  against  fate  : 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings  ! 


254  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Sceptre  and  crown 

Must  tumble  clown, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow, 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds  ; 
Upon  death's  purple  altar,  now. 
See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds. 
All  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb  : 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  the  dust ! 

The  mind  that  dictated  the  above  incomparable 
lines  could  scarcely  be  insensible  to  moral  excel- 
lence and  religious  feeling.  The  same  may  be  predi- 
cated of  the  subjoined,  also  from  his  pen :  — 

Hark  !  how  chimes  the  passing  bell ! 
There's  no  music  to  a  knell : 
All  the  other  sounds  we  hear 
Flatter,  and  but  cheat  the  ear. 
This  doth  put  us  still  in  mind 
That  our  flesh  must  be  resigned  ; 
And,  a  general  silence  made. 
The  world  be  muffled  in  a  shade. 
Orpheus'  lute,  as  poets  tell, 
Was  but  a  moral  of  this  bell. 


We  now  hail  that  chief  of  the  tuneful  throng,  the 
great  and  good  Milton,  whom  a  brother  bard  beauti- 
fully apostrophizes  as  one  — 

That  rode  sublime 
Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  Ecstasy, 
The  secret  of  the  abyss  to  spy ; 
Who  passed  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time ; 
The  living  Throne,  the  sapphire  blaze. 
Where  angels  tremblp,  while  they  gaze, 
He  saw ;  but,  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night ! 


EARLY     ENGLISH. 


255 


Yes  :  the  first  thought  that  is  suggested  to  us  by  the 
magic  name  of  Milton  is  his  wondrous  spiritual  vision, 
coupled  with  his  bodily  blindness.     Yet  the  Christian 
philosophy  with  which    he  endured  the  privation  of 
sight,  and  the  dignified  strain  in  which  he  repelled  the 
foul  charge  of  his  assailants,  that  it  was  a  judgment 
from  heaven  for  his  republican  opinions,  are  beyond 
all  praise.     What  nobility  of  mind,  and  what  splen- 
dor of  diction,  he  discovers  in  the  following  eloquent 
passage  :  "  It  is  not  so  wretched  to  be  blind,"  he  says, 
"  as  it  is  not  to  be  capable  of  enduring  blindness.     Let 
me  be  the  most  feeble  creature  alive,  as  long  as  that 
feebleness   serves  to    invigorate    the    energies   of  my 
rational  and  immortal  spirit;  as  long  as,  in  that  ob- 
scurity in  which   I   am    enveloped,   the    light  of  the 
Divine    Presence    more    clearly  shines ;  and,  indeed, 
in  my  blindness  I  enjoy,  in  no  inconsiderable  degree, 
the    favor    of  the  Deity,  who  regards  me  with  more 
tenderness  and  compassion  in  proportion  as  I  am  able 
to  behold  nothing  but  Himself.     For  the  Divine  Law 
not  only  shields  me  from  injury,  but  almost  renders 
me  too  sacred  to  attack,  as  from  the  overshadowing 
of  those  heavenly   wings  which   seem   to  have  occa- 
sioned this  obscurit3\"     Milton's  greatness  is  seen  in 
the  fact  that  he  forgot  self:  his   master-mind  sought 
to  look  outward   and  upward.     "  He  is  ever  soaring 
towards    the   region  beyond   perturbation,  —  the  true 
condition  of  soul ;  that  is,  wherein  a   man  shall   see 
things  even  as  God  would   have   him   see   them.     He 
has  no  time  to  droop  his  pinions,  and  sit   moody,  even 
on  the  highest  pine  :  the  sun  is  above  him  ;  he  must 
fly  upwards."  * 

♦  England's  Antiphon. 


256  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

At  the  age  of  forty-five,  he  thus  writes  concerning 
his  bhndness,  one  of  his  noblest  sonnets :  — 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent,  which  is  death  to  hide, 

Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  He,  returning,  chide : 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  denied  ?  " 

I  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies  :  "  God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,  or  His  own  gifts  ;  who  best 
Bear  His  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best ;  His  state 

Is  kingly ;  thousands  at  His  bidding  speed. 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

Among  Milton's  fine  lyrics,  the  following  is,  per- 
haps, less  familiar  to  the  reader  than  the  preceding 
extract :  — 

Fly,  envious  Time,  till  thou  run  out  thy  race  ; 

Call  on  the  lazy,  leaden-stepping  hours. 

Whose  speed  is  but  the  heavy  plummet's  pace. 

And  glut  thyself  with  what  thy  womb  devours, — 

Which  is  no  more  than  what  is  false  and  vain, 

And  merely  mortal  dross  ; 

So  little  is  our  loss  ! 

So  little  is  thy  gain  ! 

For  when  as  each  thing  bad  thou  hast  entombed, 

And,  last  of  all,  thy  greedy  self  consumed. 

Then  long  eternity  shall  greet  our  bliss 

With  an  individual  kiss, 

And  joy  shall  overtake  us  as  a  flood  : 

When  every  thing  that  is  sincerely  good. 

And  perfectly  divine, 

With  truth  and  peace  and  love,  shall  ever  shine 

About  the  supreme  throne 

Of  Him  to  whose  happy-making  sight  alone 


EARLY    ENGLISH. 


257 


When  once  our  heavenly  guided  soul  shall  climb,  — 

Then,  all  this  earthly  grossness  quit, 

Attired  with  stars,  we  shall  for  ever  sit 

Triumphing  over  Death,  and  Chance,  and  thee,  O  Time  ! 

INIilton's  passionate  love  of  music  inspired  some  of 
his  grandest  outbursts  of  song.  Glimpses  of  the  great 
poet's  life  may  be  seen  in  the  opening  passages  of 
certain  books  of  his  epic ;  the  most  pathetic  of  these 
is  the  sad  but  beautifully  patient  lament  on  the  blind 
ness  of  his  old  age.  This,  and  the  sonnets  on  his 
blindness,  and  on  the  Waldenses,  if  less  grand,  are 
among  the  most  beautiful  and  touching  of  his  writings. 
Milton  was  engaged  upon  the  great  epic  seven 
years  (1658-1665).  The  first  rough  sketches  of  the 
poem  took  the  shape  of  a  tragedy,  or  "mystery,"  on 
the  "Fall  of  Man,"  the  manuscripts  of  which  are  still 
extant  in  the  Library  of  Cambridge  University,  where 
also  is  still  to  be  seen  the  mulberry-tree  planted  by 
the  poet  when  he  was  a  student.  He  was  no  less 
illustrious  as  a  man  than  as  a  poet :  his  character 
stands  out  from  the  men  of  his  age,  and  indeed  of  any 
age,  in  moral  sublimity.  The  world's  liberty  owes  as 
much  to  his  mighty  pen  as  to  Cromwell's  weighty 
sword.  Milton's  personal  habits  were  simple  and 
pure,  yet  majestic  and  Christian.  We  can  form  some 
idea  of  the  noble  man  by  the  following  sketch  :  "  He 
was  found  in  a  small  chamber,  hung  with  rusty  green, 
sitting  in  an  elbow-chair,  and  dressed  neatly  in  black  ; 
pale,  but  not  cadaverous ;  his  hands  and  feet  gouty. 
In  his  latter  years,  he  retired  every  night  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  lay  till  four  in  summer,  till  five  in  winter ; 
and,  if  not  disposed  then  to  rise,  he  had  some  one  to 
sit  at  his  bedside,  and  read  to  him.  When  he  rose, 
17 


258  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

he  had  a  chapter  of  the  Hebrew  Bible  read  to  him , 
and,  with  the  intervention  of  breakfast,  he  studied  till 
twelve.  He  tlien  dined,  took  some  exercise  for  an 
hour,  —  generally  in  a  chair,  in  which  he  used  to 
swing  himself,  —  and  afterwards  played  on  the  organ, 
or  the  bass-viol,  and  either  sang  himself,  or  made  his 
wife  sing,  who,  as  he  said,  had  a  good  voice,  but  no 
ear.  He  then  resumed  his  studies  till  six,  from  which 
hour,  till  eight,  he  conversed  with  those  who  came  to 
visit  him.  He  finally  took  a  light  supper,  smoked  a 
pipe  of  tobacco,  and  drank  a  glass  of  water,  after 
which  he  retired  to  rest."  *  So  calmly  passed  the 
days  of  the  blind  old  poet,  until,  before  the  completion 
of  his  sixty-sixth  year,  he  passed  away  from  earth 
with  scarcely  a  pang.  It  was  on  Sunday,  Nov.  8, 
1674.  His  ashes  repose  in  the  Church  of  St.  Giles, 
Cripplegate. 

It  seems  supererogatory,  if  not  absurd,  to  attempt 
any  tribute  to  his  genius,  at  this  late  day,  when  Ma- 
caulay  has  expressed  such  a  beautiful  one  among  his 
noble  historic  sketches,  where  he  says:  "A  mightier 
poet,  tried  at  once  by  pain,  danger,  poverty,  obloquy, 
and  blindness,  meditated,  undisturbed  by  the  obscene 
tumult  which  raged  all  around  him,  a  song  so  sublime 
and  so  lofty,  that  it  would  not  have  misbecome  the 
lips  of  those  ethereal  Virtues  whom  he  saw,  with  that 
inner  eye,  which  no  calamity  could  darken,  flinging 
down  on  the  jasper  pavement  their  crowns  of  amaranth 
and  gold." 

Milton's  splendid  Hymn  to  the  Nativity,  written  at 
the  early  age  of  twenty-one  years,  remains  unrivalled 
for  its  sublimity  and  classic  elegance.  Listen  to  a 
stanza  or  two  :  — 

•  Collier's  Eng.  Lit 


EARLY   ENGLISH.  259 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound, 

Was  heard  the  world  around  ; 
The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  uphung ; 

The  hooked  chariot  stood 

Unstained  with  hostile  blood  ; 
The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  arm^d  throng ; 

And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovereign  Lord  was  by ! 

The  oracles  are  dumb, 

No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving ; 

Apollo  from  his  shrine 

Can  no  more  divine. 
With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving; 

No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

The  chief  of  sacred  singers,  it  is  known,  held  the 
post  of  Latin  Secretary  under  Cromwell ;  at  the  Res- 
toration, he  was,  of  course,  dismissed.  He  was  now 
poor  and  blind  ;  and,  in  addition  to  these  trials,  Charles 
II.  fined  him,  and  doomed  his  writings,  on  Liberty,  to 
be  publicly  burned.  Undaunted,  however,  by  these 
accumulated  afflictions,  the  great  poet  produced  "Par- 
adise Lost."  After  enduring  the  ills  of  poverty  several 
years,  the  king  invited  him  to  resume  his  former  post, 
with  all  its  honors,  emoluments,  and  court  favors;  but 
Milton,  well  knowing  that  this  honor  must  involve 
silence  on  the  question  of  human  liberty,  did  not 
hesitate,  but,  with  noble  magnanimity,  refused  the 
tempting  bribe.  He  preferred  the  principle  of  right, 
although  it  entailed  poverty,  to  a  mean  ambition,  with 
the  splendors  of  court  patronage.  How  grandly  the 
heroism  of  the  man  with  the  genius  of  the  poet  unite 
in  the  "  Poet  of  Paradise  "  I 


26o  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

One  of  the  best,  if  not  the  best,  of  Milton's  famous 
sonnets,  is  that  "  On  the  late  Massacre  in  Piemont :  "  — 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  Thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 

Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold  ! 

Even  them  who  kept  Thy  truth  so  jDure  of  old. 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks  and  stones. 
Forget  not !  in  Thy  book  record  their  groans, 

Who  were  Thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 

Slain  by  the  bloody  Piemontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their  moans 

The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 

O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
The  triple  tyrant ;  that  from  these  may  grow 

A  hundred-fold,  who,  having  learned  Thy  way. 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

In  his  eloquent  defence  of  sacred  poetry,  Milton 
declares  the  proper  office  of  the  poet  to  be  "  to  cele- 
brate, in  glorious  and  lofty  hymns,  the  throne  and 
equipage  of  God's  almightiness ;  and  what  He  works 
and  what  He  suffers  to  be  wrought  with  high  provi- 
dence in  His  Church ;  to  sing  victorious  agonies  of 
saints  and  martyrs,  the  deeds  and  triumphs  of  just 
and  pious  nations  doing  valiantly,  through  faith, 
against  Christ's  enemies;  to  deplore  the  general  re- 
lapses of  kingdoms  and  states  from  justice  and  God's 
tiue  worship."  Here  are  his  exquisite  lines  on  church 
music :  — 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 

To  walk  the  studious  cloisters  pale. 

And  love  the  high  embow(^d  roof, 

With  antique  pillars  massy  proof. 

And  storied  windows  richly  dight, 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light ; 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 

To  the  full-voiced  choir  below, 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  261 

In  service  high,  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

We  have  only  space  for  a  few  passages  from  his 
great  epic :  the  "  Hymn  to  the  Creator,"  like  a  true 
picture,  loses  none  of  its  freshness  and  richness  by 
reperusal. 

These  are  Thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good. 

Almighty  !     Thine  this  universal  frame, 

Thus  wondrous  fair ;  Thyself  how  wondrous  then  ! 

Unspeakable,  who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens 

To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 

In  these  Thy  lowest  works  ;  yet  these  declare 

Thy  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  power  divine. 

Speak,  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light, 

Angels  ;  for  ye  behold  Him,  and  with  songs 

And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 

Circle  His  throne  rejoicing  ;  ye  in  heaven : 

On  earth  join,  all  ye  creatures,  to  extol 

Him  first,  Him  last,  Him  midst,  and  without  end.. 

Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 

If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn. 

Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling  morn 

With  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  Him  in  thy  sphere, 

While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 

Thou  sun,  of  this  great  world  both  eye  and  soul. 

Acknowledge  Him  thy  greater  ;  sound  His  praise 

In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb'st. 

And  when  high  noon  hast  gained,  and  when  thou  fall'st. 

Ye  mists  and  exhalations,  that  now  rise 
From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray, 
Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 
In  honor  to  the  world's  Great  Author  rise  ; 
Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncolored  sky, 
Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers. 
Rising  or  falling  still  advance  his  praise. 


262  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

His  praise,  ye  winds  that  from  four  quarters  blow, 
Breathe  soft  or  loud  ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines, 
With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 
Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble,  as  ye  flow, 
Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 

Now  for  his  majestic  chant  for  "  Evening  in  Para- 
dise:"— 

Now  came  still  evening  on,  and  twilight  gray 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad : 
Silence  accompanied  ;  for  beast  and  bird, 
They  to  their  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  nests. 
Were  slunk  ;  all  but  the  wakeful  nightingale  ; 
She  all  night  long  her  amorous  descant  sung ; 
Silence  was  pleased  :  now  glowed  the  firmament 
With  living  sapphires  ;  Hesperus,  that  led 
The  starry  host,  rode  brightest,  till  the  moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length. 
Apparent  queen,  unveiled  her  peerless  light. 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw  ! 


Nor  think,  though  men  were  none, 
That  heaven  would  want  spectators,  God  want  praise. 
MilHons  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep. 
All  these  with  ceaseless  praise  His  works  behold, 
Both  day  and  night.     How  often  from  the  steep 
Of  echoing  hill  or  thickets  have  we  heard 
Celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  air. 
Sole,  or  responsive  to  each  other's  note. 
Singing  their  great  Creator  !     Oft  in  bands, 
While  they  keep  watch,  or  nightly  rounding  walk. 
With  heavenly  touch  of  instrumental  sounds 
In  full  harmonic  numbers  joined,  their  songs 
Divide  the  night,  and  lift  our  thoughts  to  Heaven. 

Much  curious  speculation  has  been  entertained  con- 
cerning the  origin  of  Milton's  "  Paradise  Lost."  Some 
have  supposed  that  it  was  suggested  by  the  "  Divine 
Weekes"  of  De  Bartas ;  others,  with  no  more  plausi- 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  263 

bility,  think  to  trace  it  to  an  earlier  source, — that  ol 
Avitus,  one  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Church,  who  was 
consecrated,  in  the  year  490,  Archbishop  of  Vienna, 
in  Dauphiny ;  and  who  is  said  to  have  converted 
Clovis,  king  of  France,  and  Sigismund,  of  Burgundy, 
to  Christianity.  He  wrote  five  sacred  poems  on  "The 
Creation,"  "The  Fall,"  "The  Deluge,"  &c.,  and  died 
in  A.D.  525.  Milton  is  supposed  to  have  been  ac- 
quainted with  these  Latin  poems,  and  possibly  derived 
the  idea  of  his  epic  therefrom. 

There  is  still  another  conjecture,  —  that  of  the  re- 
nowned Dutch  poet,  Vondel,  an  Anabaptist,  who  was 
lowly  born  and  without  education,  but  whose  genius 
was  most  remarkable.  His  "Lucifer"  may  be  con- 
sidered the  precursor  of  "Paradise  Lost,'  which  it 
anticipated  fourteen  years.  There  is  no  evidence  to 
show,  however,  that  the  incomparable  Milton  kindled 
his  flame  at  that  of  his  illustrious  contemporary. 

We  scarcely  need  refer  to  his  "  Sonnet  to  Cromwell," 
or  to  his  "II  Penseroso,"  "Com.us,"  "L'  Allegro,"  or  to 
his  fine  sonnets  on  "May  Morning,"  to  "The  Nightin- 
gale," &c.  :  they  are  too  well  known. 

A  clergyman  at  Hull  was  stepping  into  a  boat  with 
a  young  couple,  whom  he  was  going  to  marry.  The 
event  took  place  early  in  the  seventeenth  century.  The 
weather  was  calm,  and  there  was  the  promise  of  a 
bright  voyage ;  but  a  m3-sterious  premonition  of  com- 
ing danger  oppressed  the  good  parson's  heart,  and, 
throwing  his  cane  on  shore  as  the  boat  went  off,  he 
cried,  "  Ho,  for  heaven  !  "  The  shout  was  prophetic  : 
neither  himself,  bridegroom,  nor  bride  ever  returned. 
The  son  of  that  prophetic  pastor  lived  to  give  us  one 
of  the  be^t  boat-songs  that  ever  floated  with  the  sailor 


264  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

over  the  waters,  or  charmed  the  dwellers  on  the  land. 
This  son  was  Andrew  Marvell,  the  friend  of  Milton. 
His  deep  sympathy  with  the  suffering  and  persecuted 
for  conscience'  sake  may  be  seen  in  his  beautiful 
poem :  — 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride, 
In  th'  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat  that  rowed  along, 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song. 

What  should  we  do,  but  sing  His  praise. 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze. 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 

Sir  Thomas  Browne,  contemporary  with  Waller, 
has  given  us  a  fine  hymn  in  his  "  Religio  Medici : " 
it  occurs  in  the  midst  of  prose,  as  the  prayer  every 
night  before  he  yields  to  the  "death  of  sleep."  Sleep 
is  "so  like  death,"  he  says,  "that  I  dare  not  trust  it 
without  my  prayers,  and  an  half-adieu  unto  the  world, 
and  take  my  farewell  in  a  colloquy  with  God." 

The  night  is  come  :  like  to  the  day, 
Depart  not  Thou,  great  God,  away. 
Let  not  my  sin,  black  as  the  night. 
Eclipse  the  lustre  of  Thy  light. 
Keep  still  in  my  horizon  :  to  me 
The  sun  makes  not  the  day,  but  Thee. 
Thou,  whose  nature  cannot  sleep, 
On  my  temples  sentry  keep  ; 
Guard  me  'gainst  those  watchful  foes 
Whose  eyes  are  open  while  mine  close : 
Let  no  dreams  my  head  infest, 
But  such  as  Jacob's  temples  blest. 
While  I  do  rest,  my  soul  advance  : 
Make  my  sleep  a  holy  trance, 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  265 

That  I  may,  my  rest  being  wrought, 
Awake  unto  some  holy  thought. 
And  with  as  active  vigor  run 
My  course,  as  doth  the  nimble  sun. 
Sleep  is  a  death  :  oh,  make  me  try. 
By  sleeping,  what  it  is  to  die  ! 
And  as  gently  lay  mine  head 
On  my  grave,  as  now  my  bed. 
Howe'er  I  rest,  great  God,  let  me 
Awake  again,  at  last  with  Thee  ; 
And,  thus  assured,  behold,  I  lie 
Securely,  or  to  wake  or  die. 

"This  is  the  dormitive,"  he  continues,  "I  take  to 
bedward  :  I  need  no  other  laudanum  than  this  to  make 
me  sleep ;  after  which  I  close  mine  eyes  in  security, 
content  to  take  my  leave  of  the  sun,  and  sleep  unto  the 
resurrection."  These  lines  present  a  remarkable  anal- 
ogy to  the  celebrated  Evening  Hymn  of  Bishop  Ken. 

The  most  sublime  and  splendid  passage  from  the 
pen  of  Dry  den,  according  to  Warton,  is  this:  — 

So  when  of  old  the  Almighty  Father  sate, 

In  council,  to  redeem  our  ruined  state. 

Millions  of  millions,  at  a  distance  round. 

Silent  the  sacred  consistory  crowned. 

To  hear  what  Mercy,  mixed  with  Justice,  could  propound : 

All  prompt,  with  eager  pity,  to  fulfil 

The  full  extent  of  their  Creator's  will ! 

But  when  the  stern  conditions  were  declared, 

A  mournful  whisper  through  the  hosts  was  heard ; 

And  the  whole  Hierarchy,  with  heads  hung  down, 

Submissively  declined  the  ponderous  proffered  crown. 

Then,  not  till  then,  the  Eternal  Son  from  high, 

Rose  in  the  strength  of  all  the  Deity,  — 

Stood  forth  to  accept  the  terms,  and  underwent 

A  weight  which  all  the  frame  of  Heaven  had  bent, 

Nor  He  himself  could  bear,  but  as  Omnipotent ! 


266  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Dryden's  exquisite  translation  of  "Veni,  Creator 
Spiritus"  is  one  of  the  finest  compositions  in  the  lan- 
guage :  — 

Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid 
The  world's  foundations  first  were  laid, 
Come  visit  every  pious  mind  ; 
Come  pour  thy  joys  on  human  Icind  ; 
From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free, 
And  malce  Thy  temples  worthy  Thee. 

Plenteous  of  grace,  descend  from  high, 

Rich  in  thy  sevenfold  energy  ! 

Thou  strength  of  His  almighty  hand, 

Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  command ! 

Refine  and  purge  our  earthly  parts  ; 
But,  oh,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts  ! 
Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control. 
Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul ; 
And  when  rebellious  they  are  grown. 
Then  lay  Thy  hand,  and  hold  them  down. 

Chase  from  our  minds  the  infernal  foe, 
And  peace,  the  fruit  of  love,  bestow  ; 
And,  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray, 
Protect  and  guide  us  in  the  way. 

Make  us  eternal  truths  receive. 
And  practise  all  that  we  believe  : 
Give  us  Thyself,  that  we  may  see 
The  Father,  and  the  Son,  by  Thee. 

The  opening  of  his  poem,  "  Religio  Laici,"  written 
to  defend  episcopacy  against  dissent,  is  solemn  and 
majestic  in  its  flow :  — 

Dim  as  the  borrowed  beams  of  moon  and  stars 
To  lonely,  weary,  wandering  travellers. 
Is  Reason  to  the  Soul :  and,  as  on  high 
Those  rolling  fires  discover  but  die  sky. 


EARLY    ENGLISH.  267 

Not  light  us  here  ;  so  Reason's  glimmering  ray 

Was  lent,  not  to  assure  our  doubtful  way, 

But  guide  us  upward  to  a  better  day. 

And  as  those  nightly  tapers  disappear, 

When  day's  bright  lord  ascends  our  hemisphere  ; 

So  pale  grows  Reason  at  Religion's  sight : 

So  dies,  and  so  dissolves,  in  supernatural  light ! 

Here  we  dose  our  Evening  with  the  Elizabethan 
poets,  those  magnates  of  the  British  Muse  ;  and,  as 
we  recede  from  the  Augustan  Age  of  England's  poetic 
glory,  let  us,  with  a  gentle  and  loving  reverence, 
thank  them  in  our  hearts,  for  the  refined  pleasure  and 
exaltation  of  feeling  which  their  noble  numbers  have 
inspired  in  us.  In  conning  over  their  glowing  and 
pictorial  melodies,  we  seem  to  be  admitted  to  the 
presence-chamber  of  the  mighty  spirit  host,  —  those 
"  God-anointed  kings  of  thought,"  convened  from  that 
great  age  and  clime  ;  and,  as  we  cannot  better  ex- 
press our  sense  of  obligation,  let  us  cherish  and  con- 
serve, with  miser  care,  the  good  things  they  have 
bequeathed  to  us. 


-C^>^^#«2®#* 


SEVENTH     EVENING. 


LATER   ENGLISH. 


m 


SEVENTH     EVENING. 


LATER   ENGLISH. 

"  "D  LESS  the  Lord,  O  my  soul !  and  all  that  is  within 
-^^  me  bless  His  holy  name  ! "  Thus  sang  the  Psalm- 
ist. Thus  should  we  sing  too.  "We  should,  with 
him,  issue  this,  one  of  the  grandest  invocations  that 
can  be  uttered,  addressed  to  one  of  the  noblest  au- 
diences that  can  be  convoked.  The  Psalmist  peals  a 
summons  through  all  the  chambers  of  his  being,  and 
calls  forth  every  capacity  of  his  nature,  that,  one  and 
all,  they  might  join  in  a  vast  chorus,  of  which  the  name 
of  God  should  be  the  theme,  and  the  glory  of  God  the 
end.  It  seems  as  though  he  gathered  into  some  one 
vast  inner  chamber  his  powers  of  thought  and  memor}' 
and  hope  and  fear  and  love,  and  that  he  gave  charge 
to  his  soul  to  be  the  leader  of  this  choir,  yea,  to  be  the 
very  soul  to  it,  breathing  life  and  sense  into  its  melody, 
to  give  the  key-note  to  its  chants  and  to  rule  its  song. 
Yes  :  as  David  did,  so  let  us  do  also.  Each  man  has 
within  his  own  bosom  the  materials  for  a  choir,  as 
tuneful  as  any  which  ever  stood  in  surpliced  array 
beneath  the  cathedral's  fretted  roof;  a  choir  with  full, 
deep,  rich  voices,  whose  anthems  can  swell,  whose 
choruses  can  peal,  upward,  upward,  upward,  far  above 


272  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

the  din  and  turmoil  of  the  earth,  until  they  float  into 
the  presence  of  God  Himself,  and  mingle,  it  may  be, 
with  the  myriad  voices  of  those  whose  praises  are  ever 
heard  around  the  throne."  * 

As  introductory  to  our  talk  about  English  hymn- 
writers  and  their  hymns,  it  may  not  be  inappropriate 
to  premise  a  few  words  as  to  what  properly  constitutes 
a  hymn.  In  most  of  our  church  collections  may  be 
found  many  sacred  poems,  many  admonitory  rhymes 
or  poetical  homilies,  intermingled  with  what  are  really 
true  hymns  of  praise  and  adoration.  A  true  hymn  is 
either  prayer  or  praise,  —  a  heart-utterance  of  praise 
to  the  Divine  Being,  —  and  not  a  response  from  the  pew 
to  the  pulpit.  "  Hymns  are  not  meant  to  be  theologi- 
cal statements,"  remarks  a  recent  English  hymnist, 
"expositions  of  doctrine,  or  enunciations  of  precepts: 
they  are  utterances  of  the  soul  in  its  manifold  moods 
of  hope  and  fear,  joy  and  sorrow,  love,  wonder,  and 
aspiration.  A  hymn  should  not  consist  of  comments 
on  a  text,  or  of  remarks  on  an  experience ;  but  of  a 
central  and  creative  thought,  shaping  for  itself  melo- 
dious utterance,  and  with  every  detail  subordinated  to 
its  clear  and  harmonious  presentation.  Herein  a  true 
hymn  takes  rank  as  a  poem.  Hymns  are  utterances 
of  the  religious  affections,  not  theological  statements  or 
doctrinal  expositions.  All  true  hymns  have  grown  out 
of  a  deep  and  true  theology."!  The  "Te  Deum"  was 
praised  by  Luther  as  a  good  symbol,  not  less  than  as 
a  perfect  hymn.  While,  therefore,  hortatory  hymns 
are  usually  unsuitable  for  congregational  singing,  oth- 
ers, again,  are  equally  unadapted  for  the  use  of  a 
mixed  audience,  because  of  the  use  of  too  great  famili- 

•  Power  on  the  Psalms.  t  Gill's  Golden  Chain  of  Praise. 


LATER    ENGLISH.  273 

arity  of  expression  as  applied  to  our  Lord  ;  instances 
of  which  are  noticeable  in  some  of  Watts's  pieces  in 
his  "  Horee  Lyricas,"  and  in  some  of  the  Moravian 
hymns.  All  such  addresses  should  be  expressions  of 
"  humble  love  joined  with  holy  fear." 

"Hymns  are  the  exponents  of  the  inmost  piety  of 
the  Church,"  observes  a  glowing  and  forcible  writer;* 
"they  are  the  crystalline  tears,  or  blossoms  of  joy,  or 
holy  prayers,  or  incarnated  raptures.  They  are  jew- 
els, which  the  Church  has  worn,  —  the  pearls,  the 
diamonds,  and  precious  stones,  formed  into  amulets, 
more  potent  against  sorrow  and  sadness  than  the  most 
famous  charms  of  wizard  or  magician.  Angels  sat  at 
the  grave's  mouth  ;  and  so  hymns  are  the  angels  that 
rise  up  out  of  our  griefs  and  darkness  and  dismay," 
Yes  :  very  many  of  our  most  cherished  hymns  are  those 
which,  expressive  of  the  heart-struggles  and  aspira- 
tions of  Christian  life,  as  well  as  those  of  joy  and  sor- 
row, hope  or  fear,  have,  for  the  most  part,  had  their 
birth  amid  the  shadows  of  the  chamber  of  sorrow. 
These  soul-utterances  in  song  have  usually  emanated 
from  those  who  have  been  taught  "  the  divine  art  of 
carrying  sorrow  and  trouble  as  wonderful  food,  as  an 
invisible  garment  that  clothed  them  with  strength, 
as  a  mysterious  joy ;  so  that  they  suffered  gladly,  so 
that  they  might  see  nobler  realities  than  sight  could 
reach."  So  prolific  have  been  our  English  hymnists, 
during  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  that, 
according  to  a  recent  authority, f  no  less  than  seven 
hundred  names  in  this  department  of  English  poetry 
have  been  enumerated.  We  can,  of  course,  refer  only 
to  the  most  renowned. 

•  H.  W.  Beecher.  t  Sedgvvick. 

18 


274  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

When  the  Reformation  dawned  on  England,  the 
common  people  did  not  require  much  persuasion  to 
induce  them  to  sing  hymns  in  the  mother  tongue. 
Congregational  singing  soon  found  its  way  into  parish 
churches  and  chapels  ;  for  Geneva  had  set  the  fashion, 
where  "  all  the  congregation  —  men,  women,  and 
boys  —  sing  together,"  and  the  "sweet  infection"  soon 
spread  over  seas.  It  is  remarkable  that  the  Baptists, 
after  the  Reformation,  were  very  generally  opposed  to 
singing  in  their  congregations  :  it  was  not  until  a  score 
of  years  or  more  after,  that  the  practice  obtained  with 
them.  The  Baptist  communion  was  much  divided  on 
this  question  of  singing;  to  such  a  degree,  indeed,  as 
to  put  both  parties  out  of  tune. 

When  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  reached  the  long-wished- 
for  Western  world,  who  would  not  like  to  have  listened 
to  that  united,  hearty  hymn  of  thanksgiving,  that  would 
put  to  shame  much  of  our  modern  psalm-singing,  in 
which  the  ear,  rather  than  the  heart,  seems  to  be  most 
concerned?  During  the  great  revival  which  took  place 
under  Edwards,  Whitefield,  and  others,  singing  formed 
a  prominent  and  a  most  influential  part  in  divine  wor- 
ship ;  as  it  also  did  in  the  spiritual  crusade  of  the 
Wesleys,  Doddridge,  and  others,  in  England. 

In  making  our  selections,  the  difficulty  that  con- 
fronts us  at  the  outset  is,  what  to  indicate,  and  what 
to  omit,  the  claimants  being  so  numerous  ;  and  yet  the 
precise  information  that  we  seek  is  by  no  means  of 
ready  access. 

Not  seldom  do  we  dare  perils  and  dangers,  make 
long  pilgrimages  over  land  and  ocean,  to  gaze  upon 
some  sainted  shrine,  or  linger  in  the  precincts  of  some 
spot  hallowed  to  us  by  genius.     A  kindred  interest  is 


LATER    ENGLISH.  275 

awakened  by  the  recital  of  whatever  is  associated  with 
those  productions  of  the  pen  that  have  won  for  them- 
selves our  admiration  and  esteem.  This  is  especially 
true  with  respect  to  our  poets  and  hymn-writers.  Who 
does  not  feel  a  deeper  interest  in  perusing  those  touch- 
ing stanzas,  "  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way,"  when 
he  recalls  the  occasion  which  produced  them,  —  the 
dark  clouds  that  overshadowed  the  gentle  spirit  of  the 
Christian  bard,  when  those  plaintive  strains  first  welled 
up  from  his  tempest-tossed  heart? 

In  presenting  the  results  of  our  researches  pertaining 
to  the  hymn-writers  and  their  hymns,  we  would  premise 
that  the  incidents  we  shall  adduce  will,  of  necessity, 
be  very  brief  and  select.  First,  then,  in  the  order  of 
time,  we  meet  with  the  well-known  names  of  Stern- 
hold  and  Hopkins.  The  first-named  was  an  officer  in 
the  Court  of  Henry  VUL,  and  Hopkins  was  a  clergy- 
man in  Suffolk.  Jointly,  they  were  the  authors  of  the 
first  psalter  attached  to  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer, 
which  appeared  in  1562.  This  version  of  the  Psalms 
was,  in  1696,  superseded  by  that  of  Brady  and  Tate. 

The  fine  old  hymn,  "All  people  that  on  earth  do 
dwell,"  which  has  been  often  ascribed  to  Hopkins,  is 
now  believed  to  have  been  composed  by  one  Kethe, 
who  was  an  exile  with  Knox,  at  Geneva,  in  1555 • 

Richard  Baxter,  who  was  born  a.d.  1615,  is  well 
known  as  the  author  of  "The  Saint's  Everlasting 
Rest."  He  wrote  poetry,  as  well  as  solemn  prose, 
to  beguile,  doubtless,  his  sad  and  solitary  hours,  which 
were  not  few.  He  was  often  harassed  by  threats  and 
fines  and  imprisonment ;  and  at  length,  after  a  trial 
before  the  notorious  Jeffi-ies,  was  condemned,  for  his 
"  Paraphrase  on  the  New  Testament,"  to  pay  a  fine  of 


276  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

five  hundred  marks.  Being  unable  to  pay  the  amount, 
he  was  committed  to  prison.  He  bore  his  tribulations 
with  wonderful  patience ;  and  when,  during  his  last 
sickness,  he  was  asked  by  a  friend  how  he  did,  he  re- 
plied, "Almost  well."  His  end  was  as  peaceful  as  his 
earthly  life  had  been  troublous.  His  most  popular 
hymn  reads,  — 

Lord,  it  belongs  not  to  my  care,  whether  I  die  or  live. 
It  is  part  of  a  sacred  lyric,  commencing,  — 

My  whole  though  broken  heart,  0  Lord  !  from  henceforth  shall  be 
Thine. 

A  contemporary  of  the  forenamed  was  Mason,  the 
author  of  the  well-known  "Treatise  on  Self-Knowl- 
edge,"  who  wrote  some  hymns,  like  Qnarles'  and  Her- 
bert's for  quaintness,  but  "luminous  with  imagery." 
Take  a  specimen  stanza,  from  his  "Evening  Song  of 
Praise:"  — 

Man's  life's  a  book  of  history, 
The  leaves  thereof  are  days, 
The  letters,  mercies  closely  joined, 
The  title  is  Thy  praise. 

John  Mason  was  one  of  the  earlier  hymn-writers  to 
whom  Dr.  Watts  was  indebted.     The  lines, 

What  shall  I  render  to  my  God, 
For  all  his  gifts  to  me  ? 

are  to  be  found  identical  in  both  collections. 

Mason,  whom  Baxter  styled  "  the  glory  of  the  Church 
of  England,"  became,  in  1674,  rector  of  Water-Strat- 
ford, Bucks,  where  he  spent  his  devoted  and  useful 
life;  he  "finished  his  course  with  joy,"  in  1694.  Of 
his  sacred  songs,  Montgomery  says,  "The  style  is  a 


LATER    ENGLISH.  277 

middle  tint  between  the  raw  coloring  of  Quarles  and 
the  daylight  clearness  of  Watts  and  the  Wesleys." 

Honest  John  Bunyan's  name  ought  to  be  mentioned 
here ;  f  )r,  although  a  writer  of  very  poor  verse,  in  his 
prose  he  was  essentially  a  poet,  as  his  immortal  alle- 
gory attests.  He  was  born  twenty  years  after  Milton  ; 
yet,  although  two  men  could  scarcely  be  more  dissim- 
ilar as  to  the  outward  accidents  of  life,  —  the  one  a 
profound  ^cholar,  the  other  an  uneducated  tinker,— 
yet  each  has  enriched  our  English  literature  far 
beyond  the  average  of  writers. 

It  is  remarkable  that  John  Bunyan,  who  had  to  en- 
dure twelve  long  years'  imprisonment  in  Bedford  jail 
for  preaching  the  gospel,  was  the  first  of  the  non- 
conformists to  receive  a  license  so  to  do  from  the  Brit- 
ish government.  It  was  dated  the  9th  of  May,  1672. 
Would  you  not  have  liked  to  have  seen  and  heard  him, 
in  his  rude  pulpit,  after  his  release  from  captivity? 

"  When  such  a  man,  familiar  with  the  skies, 
Has  filled  his  urn  where  the  pure  waters  rise, 
And  once  more  mingles  with  us,  meaner  things, 
'Tis  e'en  as  if  an  angel  shook  his  wings." 

Bunyan  was  eminently  a  Bible-man,  —  "the  man  of 
one  book,"  and  that  one  the  "Book  of  books,"  — 

"A  book  wherein  his  Saviour's  Testament, 
Written  with  golden  letters,  rich  and  brave,  — 
A  work  of  wondrous  grace,  and  able  souls  to  save." 

Henry  Vaughan's  sacred  verse,  although,  like  Her- 
bert's, disfigured  with  the  conceits  of  his  time,  is  yet 
eminently  spiritual,  and  replete  with  rare  beauty,  both 
of  thought  and  expression.  We  subjoin  a  few  extracts 
from  his  finest  poems  :  — 


278  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night, 
Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 

All  calm  as  it  was  bright ; 
And  round  beneath  it,  Time  in  hours,  days,  years, 

Driven  by  the  spheres. 
Like  a  vast  shadow  moved,  in  which  the  world 

And  all  her  train  were  hurled. 

THE   SECOND    ADVENT. 

Ah !  what  time  wilt  thou  come  ?  when  shall  that  crie, 

The  Bridegroome's  Comming  !  fill  the  sky  ? 

Shall  it  in  the  Evening  run 

When  our  words  and  works  are  done  ? 

Or  will  thy  all-surprizing  light 

Break  at  midnight, 
When  either  sleep,  or  some  dark  pleasure 
Possesseth  mad  man  without  measure  ? 
Or  shall  these  early,  fragrant  hours 

Unlock  thy  bowres  ? 
And  with  their  blush  of  light  descry 
Thy  locks  crowned  with  eternitie  ? 

Professor  Longfellow  says,  "It  was  in  an  hour  of 
blessed  communion  with  the  souls  of  the  departed  that 
the  sweet  poet  wrote  those  few  lines  which  have  made 
death  lovely.  He  spoke  well  who  said  'that  graves 
are  the  footsteps  of  angels.' "  Listen  to  these  fine 
stanzas  :  — 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days,  — 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 

Mere  ghmmerings  and  decays. 
O  holy  hope,  and  high  humility. 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  showed  them  me, 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 
Dear,  beauteous  Death  !  the  jewel  of  the  just  I 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ! 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 


LATER    ENGLISH.  279 

Vaughan's  "Hymn  to  the  Rainbow"  is  only  sur- 
passed by  that  of  Campbell,  who  plagiarized  from  his 
predecessor : — 

Still  young  and  fine  !  but  what  is  still  in  view 
We  slight  as  old  and  soiled,  though  fresh  and  new. 
How  bright  wert  thou,  when  Shem's  admiring  eye 
Thy  burnished,  flaming  arch  did  first  descry ! 
When  Terah,  Nahor,  Haran,  Abram,  Lot, — 
The  youthful  world's  gray  fathers  in  one  knot, — 
Did,  with  intentive  looks,  watch  every  hour 
For  thy  new  light,  and  trembled  at  each  shower ! 
When  thou  dost  shine,  darkness  looks  white  and  fair, 
Forms  turn  to  music,  clouds  to  smiles  and  air ; 

Bright  pledge  of  peace  and  sunshine  !  the  sure  tie 
Of  thy  Lord's  hand,  the  object  of  His  eye  ! 
When  I  behold  thee,  though  my  light  be  dim, 
Distant,  and  low,  I  can  in  thine  see  Him 
Who  looks  upon  thee  from  His  glorious  throne, 
And  minds  the  covenant  'twixt  all  and  One. 

His  poem,  "The  Retreat,"  bears  great  analogy,  in 
its  mystic  philosophy,  to  Wordsworth's  ode  on  "Im- 
mortality." Both  these  poets  seem  to  think  that  this 
is  not  our  first  stage  of  existence,  —  that  we  are  haunt- 
ed by  dim  memories  of  a  former  state.  He  enjoyed  a 
tranquil,  happy  life  (1621-1695)  at  Newton,  Wales. 
Listen  to  his  ghostly  counsel :  — 

When  first  thy  eyes  unvail,  give  thy  soul  leave 

To  do  the  like  ;  our  bodies  but  forerun 
The  spirit's  duty ;  true  hearts  spread  and  heave 

Unto  their  God,  as  flowers  do  to  the  sun : 
Give  Him  thy  first  thoughts  then  ;  so  shalt  thou  keep 
Him  company  all  day,  and  in  Him  sleep. 

Yet  never  sleep  the  sun  up  ;  prayer  should 

Dawn  with  the  day ;  there  are  set,  awful  hours 
'Twixt  heaven  and  us  :  the  manna  was  not  sfood 


28o  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

After  sun-rising,  for  day  sullies  flowers  ; 
Rise  to  prevent  the  sun  ;  sleep  doth  sins  glut, 
And  heaven's  gate  opens  when  the  world's  is  shut. 

Mornings  are  mysteries  ;  the  first  world's  youth, 

Man's  resurrection,  and  the  future's  bud, 
Shroud  in  their  births  ;  the  crown  of  life,  light,  truth, 

Is  styled  their  star ;  the  stone  and  hidden  food  ; 
These  blessings  wait  upon  them,  one  of  which 
Should  move  :  they  make  us  holy,  happy,  rich. 

Good  Bishop  Ken  (1637-1711),  whose  name  sug- 
gests the  "  Morning  and  Evening  Hymns "  and  the 
"  Doxology,"  endured  many  trials  and  afflictions  "  for 
conscience'  sake."  After  his  death  and  burial,  it  is 
recorded  that  his  sorrowing  attendants  saluted  the 
opening  day  with  the  strains  of  his  own  Morning 
Hymn.  The  doxology,  "Praise  God,  from  whom  all 
blessings  flow,"  "  is  a  masterpiece  of  compression 
and  amplification,"  says  Montgomery ;  there  is,  prob- 
ably, no  other  stanza  in  existence  that  has  been  so 
often,  and  is  still,  sung  by  all  denominations  of  Chris- 
tians.    We  subjoin  his  paraphrase  on  "  Charity  :  "  — 

Blest  Charity  !  the  grace  long-suffering,  kind, 
Which  envies  not,  has  no  self-vaunting  mind, 
Is  not  pufled  up,  makes  no  unseemly  show, 
Seeks  not  her  own,  to  provocation  slow, 
No  evil  thinks,  in  no  unrighteous  choice 
Takes  pleasure,  doth  in  truth  rejoice. 
Hides  all  things,  still  believes,  and  hopes  the  best, 
All  things  endures,  averse  to  all  contest. 
Tongues,  knowledge,  prophecy,  shall  sink  away 
At  the  first  glance  of  beatific  ray,  — 
Then  charity  its  element  shall  gain. 
And  with  the  God  of  love  eternal  reign. 

"In  him,"  it  has  been  beautifully  said,  "doctrine  and 
life   melted   harmoniously   into   each    other.      Poetry, 


LATER    ENGLISH.  281 

with  him,  was  only  a  recreation  from  graver  pursuits, 
but  he  has  bequeathed  to  us  a  Morning  and  Evening 
Hymn,  which  will  only  perish  with  the  religion  that 
inspired  them."*  An  eloquent  writer  j  thus  refers  to 
the  character  of  this  eminent  divine  :  "We  shall  hardly 
find  in  all  ecclesiastical  histor}'-  a  greener  spot  than 
the  later  years  of  this  courageous  and  affectionate 
pastor;  persecuted  alternately  by  both  parties,  and 
driven  from,  his  station  in  his  declining  age ;  yet  sing- 
ing on,  with  unabated  cheerfulness,  to  the  last." 

Among  the  hymns  of  Addison  that  have  become 
classic  is  this  :  — 

When  all  Thy  mercies,  O  my  God  !  my  rising  soul  surveys, 
Transported  with  the  view,  I'm  lost  in  wonder,  love,  and  praise  ! 
Oh,  how  shall  words,  with  equal  warmth,  the  gratitude  declare, 
That  glows  within  my  ravished  breast  ?     But  Thou  canst  read  it 

there. 
Through  every  period  of  my  life,  Thy  goodness  I'll  pursue  ; 
And,  after  death,  in  distant  worlds,  the  glorious  theme  renew. 

Our  literature  owes  much  to  Addison,  for  he  refined, 
polished,  and  purified  it  more  than  any  writer  of  his 
own  or  perhaps  any  former  age ;  even  Pope,  who 
was  his  rival  and  satirist,  admits  that  "  no  whiter 
page  than  Addison's  remains." 

What  a  noble  passage  is  his  "  Cato's  Soliloquy  on 
the  Immortality  of  the  Soul "  !  — 

It  must  be  so,  —  Plato,  thou  reason'st  well, — 
Else  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 
This  longing  after  immortality  ? 
Or  whence  this  secret  dread  and  inward  horror 
Of  falling  into  nought  ?     Why  shrinks  the  soul 
Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction .'' 
'Tis  the  Divinity  that  stirs  within  us  ; 

*  Willmott.  t  Quarterly  Review. 


2^2  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS 

'Tis  Heaven  itself  that  points  out  an  hereafter, 

And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 

Eternity!  thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought! 

Through  what  variety  of  untried  being, 

Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we  pass  I 

The  soul,  secured  in  her  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  nature  sink  in  years  ; 
But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 
Unhurt  amidst  the  war  of  elements, 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds. 

Addison's  famous  lyric,  "The  spacious  firmament 
on  high,"  first  appeared  in  the  "Spectator"  in  1712, 
at  the  close  of  an  article  by  him,  on  "The  Right  Means 
to  strengthen  Faith."*  His  paraphrase  on  the  twenty- 
third  psalm  accompanied  an  essay  on  "  Trust  in 
God,"  about  the  same  time,  when  his  powers  had 
reached  their  highest  cultivation  and  development. 
About  this  time,  also,  he  wrote  his  "  Traveller's 
Hymn,"  consisting  of  ten  stanzas, — of  which  this 
is  one,  —  of  great  beauty:  — 

Thy  mercy  sweetened  every  soil, 

Made  every  region  please,  — 
The  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warmed, 

And  smoothed  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 

To  praise  or  criticise  Addison  would  be  alike  im- 
modest and  superfluous.  Tickell's  elegy  ma}'-  best 
speak  his  tribute  :  — 

If,  pensive,  to  the  rural  shades  I  rove, 
His  form  o'ertakes  me  in  the  vernal  grove  ; 
*Twas  there  of  just  and  good  he  reasoned  strong, 
Cleared  some  great  trutli,  or  raised  some  serious  song ; 

•  It  has  been  doubted,  by  some  critics,  whether  Andrew  Marvell  did  not  write  it 


LATER    ENGLISH.  283 

There,  patient,  showed  us  the  wise  course  to  steer, 
A  candid  censor,  and  a  friend  sincere  ; 
There  taught  us  how  to  live,  and  —  oh,  too  high 
The  price  of  knowledge  !  —  taught  us  how  to  die. 

Some  two  centuries  ago,  there  was,  in  the  town  of 
Southampton,  the  son  of  a  deacon  of  an  Independent 
Church,  whose  ear  for  melody  suffered  something  Hke 
what  a  person  of  sensitive  nerve  feel^  at  the  sound  of 
a  file  sharpening  a  saw ;  and  he  complained  that  the 
hymnists  of  his  day  were  sadly  out  of  taste.  "  Give 
us  something  better,  young  man,"  was  the  reply. 
The  young  man  did  it ;  and  the  Church  was  invited 
to  close  its  evening  service  with  a  new  hymn,  which 
commenced,  — 

Behold  the  glories  of  the  Lamb,  amidst  His  Father's  throne  ; 
Prepare  new  honors  for  His  name,  and  songs  before  unknown. 

This  was  Isaac  Watts's  first  hymn.  To  him  is  the 
credit  due  of  creating  a  people's  hymnal ;  for  he  taugh'. 
them  to  sing,  and  supplied  them  with  sacred  songs. 
It  is  true  the  Wesleys  share  largely  the  honor  of  con- 
tributing to  our  hymnology ;  and  they,  in  common 
with  Watts,  have  unquestionably  done  more  to  em- 
balm in  the  hearts  and  memories  of  Christians  the 
great  scriptural  truths  of  our  faith,  than  any  that  had 
preceded  them.  Their  testimony  is  an  imperishable 
one,  like  the  truth  they  lived  and  sang. 

"He  was,"  says  Montgomery,  "almost  the  inventor 
of  hymns  in  our  language,  so  greatly  did  he  improve 
upon  his  few  almost  forgotten  predecessors  in  the  com- 
position of  sacred  song."  The  weakness  and  suffering 
of  his  later  years  afTorded  him  protracted  seasons  of 
retirement,  and  these  he  made  prolific  of  profit  to  the 


284  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Christian  world  in  the  rich  contributions  thus  con- 
ferred. As  he  approached  his  closing  hours,  he  ex- 
pressed himself  as  "waiting  God's  leave  to  die,"  and 
thus  he  entered  into  his  rest,  Nov.  25,  1748.  There 
is  a  tradition  touching  the  hymn  which  begins,  "There 
is  a  land  of  pure  delight,"  which  connects  it  with 
Southampton,  and  says  that  it  was  while  "looking 
out  upon  the  beautiful  scenery  of  the  harbor  and  river, 
and  the  green  glades  of  the  New  Forest  on  its  farther 
bank,  that  the  idea  suggested  itself  to  Dr.  Watts,  of 
'  a  land  of  pure  delight,'  and  of  '  sweet  lields  beyond 
the  swelling  flood,  dressed  in  living  green,'  as  an 
image  of  the  heavenly  Canaan." 

Watts's  once  famous  work  was  his  "Logic,"  pre- 
pared primarily  for  the  use  of  his  pupil,  the  son  of  Sir 
John  Hartopp,  at  Stoke  Newington.  When  he  at- 
tained his  twenty-fourth  year,  he  preached  his  first 
sermon  at  the  Independent  "Meeting-house,"  in  Mark 
Lane,  London ;  but  his  frequent  attacks  of  indis- 
position caused  him,  after  some  dozen  years,  to  re- 
linquish the  position.  Sir  Thomas  Abney  invited  him 
on  a  visit  to  his  house,  at  Theobalds ;  whither  he 
went  to  spend  a  week,  and  remained  for  six-and-thirty 
years,  until  his  death. 

In  spite  of  his  acknowledged  artistic  defects,  Watts's 
hymns  are  among  the  ver}^  best  extant ;  and  they  will 
continue  to  form  the  vehicles  of  utterance  for  assem- 
bled worshippers  as  well  as  for  Christian  retirement. 
By  their  quickening  and  inspiring  influence,  Congre- 
gationalism in  England  and  America  was  rescued, 
to  a  great  extent,  from  the  formalism  that  prevailed 
during  the  eighteenth  century.  Watts's  hymns  have 
found   their   way  into   the   Episcopal,   and   all   other 


LATER    ENGLISH.  285 

orthodox  communions.  How  many  of  his  expressive 
stanzas  recur  to  us,  often  involuntarily,  with  a  sana- 
tive and  soothing  power  !  such  as  these  :  — 

Be  earth,  with  all  her  scenes,  withdrawn 

Let  noise  and  vanity  be  gone  : 

In  secret  silence  of  the  mind 

My  heaven,  and  there  my  God,  I  find. 


When  I  survey  the  wondrous  cross 
On  which  the  Prince  of  Glory  died  !  * 


Death,  like  a  narrow  sea,  divides 
This  heavenly  land  from  ours. 

We  learn,  from  a  recent  authority,!  that  the  well- 
known  lines, — 

Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne. 

Ye  nations,  bow  with  sacred  joy,  — 

was  written  by  John  Wesley,  thus  improving  Watts's 
hymn,  which  began,  — 

Nations,  attend  before  His  throne. 
With  solemn  fear  and  sacred  joy. 

The  note-book  of  a  London-City  missionary  con- 
tains the  narrative  of  a  Jewess,  who,  seeing  part  of 
the  hymn,  beginning,  "Not  all  the  blood  of  beasts," 
read  it,  and  became  so  deeply  impressed  by  its  teach- 
ing, that  she  was  induced  to  consult  diligently  her 
Bible,  and  soon  she  discovered  in  the  despised  Naza- 
rene,  the  true  Messiah.  In  consequence  of  this,  her 
husband  repudiated  her,  obtained  a  divorce ;  went  to 
India,  and  married  again,  and  then  —  died.  She  suf- 
fered privation,  patiently  and  cheerfully,  like  those 
faithful  few  at  Jerusalem  of  old. 

*  A  writer  of  one  of  the  "  Oxford  Essays  "  fixes  on  this  as  Watts's  finest  hymn. 
t  MiUer. 


286  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

The  hymn  commencing,  "My  God,  the  spring  of 
all  my  joys,"  has  been  pronounced,  by  critics,  one 
of  the  very  best  of  its  author's  numerous  Christian 
lyrics.  Another  very  striking  and  impressive  one  is 
"Absent  from  flesh!  oh,  blissful  thought!"  Watts's 
lines,  — 

When  I  can  read  my  title  clear 

To  mansions  in  the  skies,  — 

Cowper  seems  to  have  adopted,  in  his  poem  on 
"Truth,"  in  the  comparison  of  the  condition  of  the 
wealthy,  sceptical  Voltaire,  with  that  of  the  poor, 
believing  cottager :  — 

Just  knows,  and  knows  no  more,  her  Bible  true,  — 
A  truth  the  brilliant  Frenchman  never  knew ; 
And  in  that  charter  reads,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
Her  title  to  a  treasure  in  the  skies. 

Doddridge  mentions  the  powerful  effect  of  singing 
the  hymn  of  Watts,  "Give  me  the  wings  of  faith  to 
rise,"  after  the  sermon  he  had  preached,  on  Hebrews 
vi.  12.  The  hymn  gave  such  emphasis  to  the  sermon, 
that  many  were  too  much  moved  to  continue  singing 
it,  while  most  sang  it  with  tears. 

Dr.  Watts's  version  of  Psalm  cxlvi.,  "I'll  praise  my 
Maker  with  my  breath,"  has  a  special  interest  as  being 
uttered,  when  very  near  his  end,  by  John  Wesley. 
From  among  many  who  have  expressed  their  sense 
of  indebtedness  to  the  worthy  doctor,  we  may  mention 
the  name  of  the  celebrated  Colonel  Gardiner,  whose 
testimony  is  strong  and  decided.  In  a  letter  to  Dr. 
Doddridge,  he  expresses  his  fear  lest  the  poet  should 
die  before  he  had  an  opportunity  of  thanking  him ; 
a  fear,   however,   not   realized.      This   "  Poet  of  the 


LATER    ENGLISH.  2&7 

Sanctuary,"  as  we  have  said,  wrote  many  if  not  most 
of  his  inspiring  hymns  in  the  chamber  of  sickness. 
Although  he  never  married,  yet  he  loved  children, 
and  is  their  friend  to  this  day  by  his  "  Divine  Songs." 
The  writer  has  lingered  reverently  over  his  tomb,  — 
not  far  from  that  of  John  Bunyan,  in  the  burial-ground 
of  Bunhill  Fields,  London,  —  the  Camfo  Santo  of 
Dissenters. 

Next  in  the  procession  of  the  sacred  poets  comes 
the  author  of  "Night  Thoughts,"— Young,  who,  from 
his  austere  gravity,  it  is  difficult  to  believe  ever  was 
young.  His  flowers  are  sometimes  intermingled  with 
weeds, — with  the  golden  grain  we  find  oft-times  the 
gaudy  and  noxious  poppy,  the  hemlock  with  the  vine : 
all  is  displayed  with  a  boundless  and  indiscriminate 
prodigality.  But  let  us  turn  to  his  picture-pages, 
albeit  they  have  less  of  bright  lights  than  of  shadows. 
Our  first  extract  is,  however,  a  splendid  one  :  — 

A  Deity  believed,  is  joy  begun ; 

A  Deity  adored,  is  joy  advanced ; 

A  Deity  beloved,  is  joy  matured. 

Each  branch  of  piety  delight  inspires. 

Faith  builds  a  bridge  from  this  world  to  the  next 

O'er  death's  dark  gulf,  and  all  its  horrors  hides. 

Praise,  the  sweet  exhalation  of  our  joy, 

That  joy  exalts,  and  makes  it  sweeter  still ; 

Prayer  ardent  opens  heaven,  lets  down  a  stream 

Of  glory  on  the  consecrated  hour 

Of  man  in  audience  with  the  Deity  ! 


At  thirty,  man  suspects  himself  a  fool ; 
Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan ; 
At  fifty,  chides  his  infamous  delay, 
Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve ; 
In  all  the  magnanimity  of  thought 


28y     EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  TOETS. 

Resolves,  and  re-resolves  ;  then  dies  the  same  ! 

And  why  ?  because  he  thinks  himself  immortal. 

All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves  : 

Themselves,  when  some  alarming  shock  of  fate 

Strikes  through  their  wounded  hearts  the  sudden  dread; 

But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air, 

Soon  close  ;  where  passed  the  shaft,  no  trace  is  found, 

As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky  retains, 

The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel : 

So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death ! 

E'en  with  the  tender  tear,  which  nature  sheds 

O'er  those  we  love,  we  drop  it  in  their  grave  ! 

This  fine  triplet  has  often  been  admired  :  — 

Talk  they  of  morals  ?     O  Thou  bleeding  Love  ! 
Thou  maker  of  new  morals  to  mankind  ! 
The  grand  morality  is  love  of  Thee  ! 

There  are  some  splendid  thoughts  in  this  pas- 
sage :  — 

The  chamber  where  the  good  man  meets  his  fate, 

Is  privileged  beyond  the  common  walk 

Of  virtuous  life,  quite  on  the  verge  of  heaven. 

Here  tired  dissimulation  drops  her  mask. 
Here  real  and  apparent  are  the  same. 
You  see  the  man  ;  you  see  his  hold  on  heaven ; 
Heaven  waits  not  the  last  moment,  owns  its  friends 
On  this  side  death,  and  points  them  out  to  men  ; 
To  vice,  confusion  ;  and,  to  virtue,  peace  ! 
Whatever  farce  the  boastful  hero  plays, 
Virtue  alone  has  majesty  in  death. 

By  a  sort  of  concatenation,  we  turn  from  the  author 
of  "Night  Thoughts"  to  that  of  "The  Grave."  Both 
are  poets  of  a  sombre  hue,  and  yet,  as  quaint  old 
Fuller  used  to  say,  "to  smell  to  a  turf  of  fresh  earth 
is  wholesome  for  the  body ;  no  less  are  thoughts  of 
mortality  cordial  to  the  soul.     Earth  thou   art,   and 


LATER    ENGLISH.  289 

unto  earth  shalt  thou  return."  Robert  Blair,  and  his 
contemporary  Young,  although  in  their  poetry  melan- 
cholic, and  shrouded  with  the  shadows  of  death,  were 
yet,  in  their  private  life,  of  cheerful  and  happy  mood 
enough.  Campbell  remarks,  "Blair  maybe  a  homely 
and  even  gloomy  poet  in  the  eye  of  fastidious  criticism  ; 
but  there  is  a  masculine  and  pronounced  character, 
even  in  his  gloom  and  homeliness,  that  keeps  it  most 
distinctly  apart  from  either  dulness,  or  even  vulgarity. 
His  style  pleases  us,  like  the  powerful  expression  of 
a  countenance  without  regular  beauty."  Here  is  a 
specimen  passage  of  his  Muse  :  — 

How  shocking  must  thy  summons  be,  O  Death  ! 
To  him  that  is  at  ease  in  his  possession ; 
Who,  counting  on  long  years  of  pleasure  here, 
Is  quite  unfurnished  for  that  world  to  come  ! 
In  that  dread  moment,  how  the  frantic  soul 
Raves  round  the  walls  of  her  clay  tenement, 
Runs  to  each  avenue,  and  shrieks  for  help, 
But  shrieks  in  vain  !     How  wishfully  she  looks 
On  all  she's  leaving,  now  no  longer  hers  ! 
A  little  longer,  yet  a  little  longer. 
Oh,  might  she  stay,  to  wash  away  her  stains. 
And  fit  her  for  her  passage  !     Mournful  sight ! 
Her  very  eyes  weep  blood  ;  and  every  groan 
She  heaves  is  big  with  horror :  but  the  foe, 
Like  a  stanch  murd'rer,  steady  to  his  purpose, 
Pursues  her  close  through  every  lane  of  life, 
Nor  misses  once  the  track,  but  presses  on  ; 
Till,  forced  at  last  to  the  tremendous  verge, 
At  once  she  sinks  to  everlasting  ruin. 

Pope's  celebrated  lyric,  "Vital  spark  of  heavenly 
flame,"  like  some  other  productions  of  his  pen,  is  an 
imitation.     "The  original  source  of  this  hymn  is  sup- 
posed to  be  a  poem  composed  by  the  Emperor  Adrian, 
19 


290  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

who,  dying  a.d.  138,  thus  gave  expression  to  his  min- 
gled doubts  and  fears.     His  poem  begins  thus  :  — 

Animula  vagula  blandula, 
Hospes  comesque  corporis. 

("Sweet  spirit,  ready  to  depart,  guest  and  companion  of  the  body.") 

It  is  afterwards  found  freely  rendered  in  a  piece  by 
a  poet  of  some  note  in  his  own  day,  —  Thomas  Flat- 
man,  of  London,  —  a  barrister,  poet,  and  painter. 
Flatman's  poem  is  called  "  A  Thought  of  Death ; " 
and,  as  he  died  in  the  year  Pope  was  born,  1688, 
and  the  poems  are  very  similar,  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  Pope  has  imitated  his  predecessor.  From 
Pope's  correspondence,  we  learn  that  on  Nov.  7?  17^2, 
he  sent  a  letter  to  Mr.  Steele,  for  insertion  in  the 
"  Spectator,"  on  the  subject  of  Adrian's  last  words ;  to 
which  Steele  responded  by  asking  him  to  make  of 
them  an  ode,  in  two  or  three  stanzas,  for  music.  He 
replied  immediately,  saying  that  he  had  done  as  re- 
quired, and  sent  the  piece."  * 

To  show  how  close  is  the  parallel  between  the  poets, 
we  put  a  stanza  of  each  side  by  side  :  — 

Full  of  sorrow,  full  of  anguish,  Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame  ! 

Fainting,    gasping,     trembling,  Quit,  oh,  quit  this  mortal  frame  ! 

crying,  Trembling,  hoping,  ling'ring, 
Panting,    groaning,    shrinking,  flying, 

dying,  —  Oh,  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  iying ! 

Melhinks   I  hear  some  gentle  Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy 

spirit  say,  strife, 

"  Be  not  fearful,  come  away  !  "  And  let  me  languish  into  life  ! 

It  has  been  urged  by  critics,  that  it  is  inconsistent 
and  inconceivable  that  a  dying  man  should  hold  such 
a  soliloquy  with  his  soul,  —  it  is  altogether  too  studied 

•  Miller's  Our  Hymus. 


LATER    ENGLISH.  29I 

and  rhetorical,  too  artificial.  Although  undoubtedly 
a  grand  poem,  yet  it  cannot  be  regarded  strictly  as  a 
hymn,  any  more  than  Toplady's  famous  production, 
"  Deathless  principle  !  arise,"  judged  by  the  rule  of 
St.  Augustine,  who  tells  us  "a  hymn  must  be  -praise, 
—  the  praise  of  God,  and  this  in  the  form  of  song." 
Pope's  "  Universal  Prayer  "  has  been  considered  justly 
amenable  to  criticism  for  its  defective  theology ;  and 
yet,  it  cannot  be  denied,  it  is  to  be  preferred  to  the 
artificial,  flamboyant  style  of  his  sacred  eclogue,  "The 
Messiah."     A  few  short  extracts  we  subjoin  :  — 

Thou  great  First  Cause,  least  understood !  who  all  my  sense  con- 
fined 
To  know  but  this,  that  Thou  art  good,  and  that  myself  am  blind : 
Yet  give  me  in  this  dark  estate,  to  see  the  good  from  ill ; 
And  binding  nature  fast  in  fate,  let  free  the  human  will. 
What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done,  or  warns  me  not  to  do, 
This,  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun,  that,  more  than  heaven 
pursue. 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride,  or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  Thy  wisdom  has  denied,  or  aught  Thy  goodness  lent 
Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe,  to  hide  the  faults  I  see ; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show,  that  mercy  show  to  me. 

To  Thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space,  whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies ! 
One  chorus  let  all  beings  raise  !  all  nature's  incense  rise ! 

Warburton  informs  us  that  Pope  wrote  his  "Uni- 
versal Prayer  "  to  silence  the  cavils  \vhich  his  "  Esf;ay 
on  Man"  had  elicited;  not  thinking,  probably,  that 
the  "Prayer"  itself  would  subject  him  to  animadver- 
sions scarcely  less  formidable.  The  incongruous  and 
irreverent  mingling  of  the  name  of  a  pagan  god  with 
that  of  the  Divine  Being,  in  the  last  line  of  the  first 
stanza ;  the  uncouth  combination  of  fate  and  free-will 


292  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

in  the  second  and  third  verses,  expressed,  too,  in  bad 
grammar ;  and  the  hyperbole  bordering  on  profanity 
in  the  fourth  stanza,  —  are  grave  defects  in  a  poem 
otherwise  worthy  of  great  critical  praise. 

Pope's  "Essay  on  Man"  was  Bohngbroke  in  verse, 
for  the  mind  of  the  former  dwelt  under  the  shadow 
of  the  latter.  This  explains  the  infidel  tendencies  of 
much  of  his  seductive  verse.  What  but  the  deistical 
fallacy  of  the  sufficiency  of  natural  religion,  as  it  is 
called,  and  the  equally  sophistical  sentiment  of  a 
spurious  liberality,  is  in  these  lines?  — 

Slave  to  no  sect,  who  takes  no  private  road, 
But  looks  through  nature,  up  to  nature's  God ! 

Or,  again,  how  unsound  are  those  lines  so  often  quoted 
with  unthinking  approval !  — 

For  forms  of  government  let  fools  contest ; 
Whate'er  is  best  administered  is  best. 
For  modes  of  faith,  let  senseless  zealots  fight ; 
He  can't  be  wrong,  whose  life  is  in  the  right. 

As  if  the  administration  of  a  government  did  not 
greatly  depend  upon  its  form ;  as  if  the  rectitude  of 
life  did  not  depend  upon  its  faith. 

Recalling  the  pure  and  almost  inspired  Muse  of 
Milton,  we  can  scarcely  read  the  seductive  lines  of  the 
great  satirist,  with  unalloyed  pleasure  or  profit.  It 
has  been  said  that  "when  Milton  lost  his  eyes.  Poetry 
lost  hers." 

Having  taken  our  exceptions  to  his  erratic  theology, 
we  gladly  accord  to  him  all  praise  for  the  masterly 
passages  which  follow:  — 

O  blindness  to  the  future  !  kindly  given, 

That  each  may  fill  the  circle  marked  by  heaven. 


LATER    ENGLISH. 

Hope  humbly,  then,  with  trembling  pinions  soar, 
Wait  the  great  teacher.  Death  ;  and  God  adore. 
What  future  bliss,  He  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast ; 
Man  never  is,  but  always  /o  be  blest : 
The  soul,  uneasy  and  confined  from  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 


293 


What  nothing  earthly  gives,  or  can  destroy, 
The  soul's  calm  sunshine  and  the  heart-felt  joy. 
Is  Virtue's  prize. 

Although  Pope's  style  was  didactic,  —  he  having 
left  untouched  the  two  higher  orders  of  poetry,  the 
epic  and  dramatic, — yet  in  this  department  he  was 
the  master  unsurpassed.  No  other  poet,  not  even 
Cowper,  has  combined  such  powers  of  reasoning  with 
such  splendid  decorations  of  fancy.  His  works  have 
been  more  frequently  edited  than  those  of  any  other 
British  poet,  except  Shakspeare.  He  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  a  very  lovable  character,  however,  as  his 
caustic  satires  would  lead  us  to  suspect.  His  person 
was  small  and  deformed  ;  and  his  temper  of  mind  often, 
also,  crooked.  His  friend.  Bishop  Atterbury,  once 
referring  to  his  irascibility,  described  him  as  "  mens 
curva  in  corpore  curvo."  In  justice  to  the  poet,  how- 
ever, we  ought  to  cite  his  noble  couplet  on  his  friend  : 

How  pleasing  Atterbury's  softer  hour ! 

How  shined  his  soul  unconquered  in  the  Tower! 

There  is  a  familiar  hymn,  beginning,  — 

Rise,  my  soul,  and  stretch  thy  wings. 
Thy  better  portion  trace, 

which  is  often  erroneously  ascribed  to  Malan  :  it  is  by 
Robert  Seagrave,  who  deserves  honorable  mention 
among  hymnists. 


294  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

One  Byrom,  born  in  1691,  has  left  several  hymns, 
which  are  more  remarkable  for  their  metaphysics  than 
their  melody.     We  present  two  of  his  epigrams  :  — 

Think,  and  be  careful  what  thou  art  within ; 
For  there  is  sin  in  the  desire  of  sin : 
Think,  and  be  thankful,  in  a  different  case ; 
For  there  is  grace  in  the  desire  of  grace. 


Faith,  Hope,  and  Love  were  questioned  what  they  thought 

Of  future  Glory,  which  religion  taught : 

Now  Faith  believed  it  firmly  to  be  true. 

And  Hope  expected  so  to  find  it  too  ; 

Love  answered,  smiling  with  a  conscious  glow, 

"  '  Believe  ? '  '  Expect  ? '  I  know  it  to  be  so  ! " 

One  of  Thomson's  finest  bursts  of  poetic  inspira- 
tion is  his  "  Hymn  of  the  Seasons  : "  how  sublimely  it 
opens ! — 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  Thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  Thy  tenderness  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields  ;  the  softening  air  is  balm; 
Echo  the  mountains  round  ;  the  forest  smiles  ; 
And  every  sense  and  every  heart  is  joy. 
Then  comes  Thy  glory  in  the  summer  months. 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  Thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year  ; 
And  oft  Thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks  ; 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve. 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  autumn  unconfined. 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  winter  awful  Thou  !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled, 
Majestic  darkness  !  on  the  whirlwind's  wing 
Riding  sublime.  Thou  bidst  tlie  world  adore. 
And  humblest  nature  with  Thy  northern  blast! 


LATER    ENGLISH.  295 

That  exquisite  poem  on  Winter,  by  Thomson,  abounds 
in  fine  passages  :  here  is  one,  which  is  inscribed  on  his 
tomb :  — 

Father  of  light  and  Ufe,  Thou  God  supreme  ! 
Oh,  teach  me  what  is  good,  —  teach  me  Thyself! 
Save  me  from  folly,  vanity,  and  vice. 
From  every  low  pursuit ;  and  feed  my  soul 
With  knowledge,  conscious  peace,  and  virtue  pure, 
Sacred,  substantial,  never-fading  bliss ! 

Thomson's  sublime  hymn,  with  which  his  "  Seasons" 
closes,  has  been  said  to  concentrate  the  essential  beauty 
of  his  epic,  as  if  in  "  a  cloud  of  fragrance,  and  by  the 
breath  of  devotion,  it  directed  it  up  to  heaven."  The 
poet  was  born,  a.d.  1700,  at  Ednam,  in  Roxburghshire  ; 
and  in  that  land  of  picturesque  beauty  and  wild  ro- 
mance he  gave  the  first  promise  of  poetic  wealth.  He 
is  described  as  a  "fine,  fat  fellow,  not  without  his 
errors ;  but  a  loving  brother,  a  fast  friend,  a  sharp  and 
accurate  observer  of  men  and  things,  and  gave  hope, 
in  his  last  hours,  that  he  died  in  the  faith." 

A  large,  sorrow-stricken  crowd  was  gathered  around 
an  open  grave  in  the  well-known  Bunhill-Fields  bury- 
ing-ground,  London,  in  the  spring  of  1768.  The  funeral 
address  and  prayer  being  ended,  the  multitude  lifted 
up  their  voices  and  sang,  — 

Sons  of  God  by  blest  adoption,  view  the  dead  with  steady  eyes  ; 
What  is  sown  thus  in  corruption  shall  in  incorruption  rise  ; 
What  is  sown  in  death's  dishonor  shall  revive  to  glory's  light ; 
What  is  sown  in  this  weak  manner  shall  be  raised  in  matchless 

might. 
Earthly  cavern,  to  thy  keeping  we  commit  our  brother's  dust : 
Keep  it  safely,  softly  sleeping,  till  our  Lord  demand  thy  trust. 
Sweetly  sleep,  dear  saint,  in  Jesus  ;  thou  with  us  shalt  wake  from 

death ; 
Hold  he  cannot,  though  he  seize  us :  we  his  power  defy  by  faith  ! 


296  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

"The  funeral-hymn  had  been  written  by  the  one 
whose  dust  was  now  covered.  The  grave  was  closed, 
and  the  stone  which  was  laid  upon  it  is  still  there  ;  and 
those  who  visit  the  spot  should  linger  awhile,  and  think 
of  the  youthful  errors  and  sins,  the  dark  conflicts,  the 
bitter  tears,  the  spiritual  struggles,  the  sound  conver- 
sion, the  consecrated  talents,  the  faithful  ministry,  and 
the  fresh  and  fruitful  hymns  of  Joseph  Hart.  And 
when  they  have  caught  the  fragrance  of  his  memory, 
and  hear  the  songs  of  those  who  still  thank  God  for  his 
ministry  in  the  old  'meeting-house'  of  Jewin  Street, 
they  may  be  ready  to  chant  the  soothing  and  assuring 
hymn,  which  arose,  in  some  solemn  moments,  nearly 
fifty  years  ago,  from  the  heart  of  Milman."* 

Brother,  thou  art  gone  before  us,  and  thy  saintly  soul  is  flown 
Where  tears  are  wiped  from  every  eye,  and  sorrow  is  unknown : 
From  the  burden  of  the  flesh,  and  from  care  and  fear  released, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Another  worthy  gentleman,  one  of  Lady  Hunting- 
ton's select  friends,  w^as  Philip  Doddridge,  whose  win- 
ning address  and  gentleness  of.  spirit  caused  him  to  be 
so  tenderly  beloved  by  Dr.  Watts.  He  lived  for  his 
humble  parish  of  Kebworth,  in  Northampton,  and 
seems  to  have  been  very  happy  in  his  seclusion  from 
the  din  and  stir  of  city  life.  "I  live  like  a  tortoise," 
he  writes,  "shut  up  in  its  shell,  almost  always  in  the 
same  town,  the  same  house,  and  the  same  chamber; 
yet  I  live  like  a  prince,  not  indeed  in  the  pomp  of 
greatness,  but  the  pride  of  liberty, —  master  of  my 
books,  master  of  my  time,  and,  I  hope  I  may  add, 
master  of  myself."  He  wrote,  at  the  suggestion  of 
Dr.  Watts,  "The  Rise  and  Progress  of  Religion  in 

•  Christophers'  Hymn-writers. 


LATER    ENGLISH.  297 

the  Soul,"  which  was  published  in  1745  ;  a  book  that 
still  continues  to  win  trophies  to  the  gospel,  not  merely 
among  the  Wilberforces  of  our  day,  but  also  among 
the  multitudes  unknown  to  earthly  fame.  In  the  au- 
tumn of  175 1,  Doddridge,  at  the  age  of  fifty,  ceased 
from  his  "labors  of  love,"  at  Lisbon,  and  his  ashes 
rest  in  the  English  burying-ground  there.  Doddridge 
deserves  our  tribute,  also,  as  "the  sweet  lyrist  of  God's 
people."  Has  he  not  given  voice  to  the  most  cherished 
emotions  of  the  soul?  Has  he  not  been  with  us  on  our 
covenant  days,  and,  with  exquisite  pathos,  bid 

The  glowing  heart  rejoice, 
And  tell  its  raptures  all  abroad  ? 

Should  the  reader  be  sceptical  as  to  the  controlling 
influence  of  a  mother's  training,  his  faith  might  be 
quickened  were  he  to  read  the  noble  testimony  of 
Augustine  to  his  sainted  mother,  Monica ;  or  the  rec- 
ords of  the  heroic  mother  of  Cromwell ;  the  mother  of 
our  own  Washington ;  or  of  her  who  taught  her  son 
theology  by  the  rude  pictorial  process  of  Dutch  tiles. 
Who  can  iustly  estimate  the  value  of  maternal  counsel 
and  instruction  in  the  instance  of  the  embryo  author 
of  the  "  Rise  and  Progress  of  Religion  m  the  Soul," 
the  "  Family  Expositor,"  and  the  imperishable  hymns 
bequeathed  to  us  by  Philip  Doddridge?  We  have, 
doubtless,  thousands  of  true  and  exemplary  mothers 
who  are  equal  to  their  responsibilities ;  but  who  does 
not  see  that  our  modern  habits  of  thought  are  adverse 
to  their  growth  and  increase?  Folly  and  fashion  seem 
well-nigh  to  have  superseded  the  reign  of  the  gentler 
graces  and  virtues  of  true  womanhood  ;  leaving  us,  in- 
stead,—  as  illustrative  of  this  age  of  progress,  —  a 
splendid  exterior,  but  no  inner  life. 


290  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

"The  North  British  Review"  pronounces  Dod- 
dridge's "  Rise  and  Progress  of  Religion "  the  best 
book  of  the  eighteenth  century ;  very  high  praise, 
when  so  many  great  pens  were  enriching  our  litera- 
ture. It  has  been  rendered  into  the  leading  languages 
of  Europe.  Who  can  tell  how  many  have  ascribed 
their  conversion  to  its  perusal? 

The  life-record  of  Doddridge  is  a  beautiful  and  in- 
structive study.  His  private  deportment,  as  well  as 
his  public  ministrations,  alike  evinced  the  amiability 
and  spiritual  culture  of  this  estimable  servant  of  God. 
With  what  wonderful  devotion  to  the  good  of  others 
did  he  fill  up  the  brief  days  of  his  earthly  career  !  how 
pure  and  exalted  his  aims  !  No  wonder  that  the  great 
Robert  Hall  should  declare  him  to  be  his  prime  favorite 
among  divines ;  or  that  his  name  is  to  the  Church  at 
large  as  a  household  word. 

The  contributions  of  Doddridge  to  our  hymnology 
are  numerous,  and  include  many  familiar  devotional 
lyrics.  Cridcally  judged,  they  are,  for  the  most  part, 
not  distinguished  for  literary  skill,  or  generally  quite 
equal  to  the  compositions  of  Dr.  Watts,  his  contem- 
porary. Doddridge's  name  will  always  be  honored  in 
connection  with  the  history  of  the  founding  of  Dissent- 
ing Colleges.  His  overtasked  and  useful  life  was 
terminated  all  too  soon  for  the  interests  of  the  good 
work  to  which  he  devoted  himself. 

Doddridge's  most  esteemed  hymns  include  those 
C('mmencing,  "  Awake,  my  soul,  stretch  every  nerve  !  " 
"Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell,"  "Grace,  'tis  a 
charming  sound,"  "Hark  !  the  glad  sound,  the  Saviour 
comes!"  "Thine  earthly  Sabbaths,  Lord,  we  love." 
Doddridge's   hymns  were  often  supplementary  epito- 


LATER   ENGLISH. 


299 


mizings  of  his  sermons.  After  he  had  completed  the 
study  of  some  biblical  topic  for  the  pulpit,  he  would 
throw  the  leading  thoughts  into  a  few  stanzas ;  the 
hymn  commencing,  "Jesus,  I  love  Thy  charming 
name,"  was  the  condensation  of  his  sermon  on  i  Pet. 
ii.  7.  Thus,  while  most  of  the  sermons  to  which  they 
pertained  have  disappeared  for  ever,  "these  sacred 
streams,  at  once  beautiful  and  buoyant,  are  destined 
to  carry  the  devout  emotions  of  Doddridge  to  every 
shore  where  His  Maker  is  loved,  and  where  his 
mother  tongue  is  spoken.  If  amber  is  the  germ  of 
fossil-trees,  fetched  up  and  floated  off*  by  the  ocean, 
hymns  like  these  are  a  spiritual  amber."  * 

Doddridge's  epigram  on  his  family  motto,  "  Dum 
vivimus  vivamus,"  so  highly  eulogized  by  Johnson,  is 
familiar  to  most  readers  :  — 

"  Live  while  you  live,"  the  epicure  would  say, 
"  And  seize  the  pleasures  of  the  present  day." 
"  Live  while  you  live,"  the  sacred  preacher  cries, 
"  And  give  to  God  each  moment  as  it  flies." 

Lord,  in  my  life  let  both  united  be  : 

I  live  in  pleasure  while  I  live  to  Thee  ! 

As  a  Christian  lyrist,  Doddridge  deserves  our 
grateful  regard.  One  of  the  best  of  his  hymns,  as 
we  have  intimated,  commences,  — 

Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell,  with  all  your  feeble  light ; 
Farewell,  thou  ever-changing  moon,  pale  empress  of  the  night ! 
And  thou,  refulgent  orb  of  day,  in  brighter  flames  arrayed, 
My  soul,  that  springs  beyond  thy  sphere,  no  more  demands  thy  aid. 
Ye  stars  are  but  the  shining  dust  of  my  divine  abode,  — 
The  pavement  of  those  heavenly  courts,  where  I  shall  reign  with 
God! 

Doddridge  seems  to  have  enjoyed  his  religion,  —  to 
have  made  the  most  of  it :  his  letters  to  his  wife  reveal 

•  Dr.  J.  Hamilton. 


300  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

this.  His  faith  was,  it  seems,  equivalent  to  a  realiza- 
tion. He  has  preserved  to  us  this  impressive  record 
(Sept.  13,  1747)  :  "I  must  record  this  day  as  one  of 
the  most  blessed  of  my  life.  God  was  pleased  to  meet 
me  in  my  secret  retirement  in  the  morning,  and  poured 
into  my  soul  such  a  flood  of  consolation  in  the  exercise 
of  faith  and  love,  as  I  was  hardly  able  to  contain.  It 
would  have  been  a  relief  to  me  to  have  been  able  even 
to  have  uttered  strong  cries  of  joy." 

Nor  is  this  an  isolated  instance.  He  seems  to  have 
enjoyed,  in  an  eminent  degree,  that  "peace  of  God 
which  passeth  all  understanding."  His  waking  hours 
were  so  frequently  employed  on  devotional  themes, 
that  they  were  sometimes  interwoven  with  the  still 
hours  of  repose,  and  mingled  with  his  dreams.  His 
recent  biographer  *  gires  an  illustration  of  this,  as 
showing  under  what  impressions  he  composed  a  fine 
hymn,  —  following  a  remarkable  dream  which  he  had, 
after  a  conversation  with  the  Rev.  Dr.  Clarke,  on  the 
state  of  the  soul  after  death. 

"He  dreamed  that  he  was  dead,  and  that  his  spirit 
soared  away  into  those  deep  regions  of  the  infinite, 
which  oftentimes  awaken  our  trembling  curiosity.  He 
felt,  as  he  lost  sight  of  this  noisy,  busy  world,  how 
vain  and  empty  are  the  objects  which  excite  its  inhab- 
itants so  much ;  and,  while  musing  on  the  theme,  and 
committing  himself  to  the  care  of  the  Divine  Pilot,  as 
he  embarked  on  the  ocean  of  immensity,  and  sailed 
amidst  islands  of  stars,  he  fancied  he  was  met  on  the 
shores  of  heaven  by  an  angel-guide,  who  conducted 
him  to  a  palace  which  had  been  assigned  for  his 
abode.     The  dreamer  wondered  at  the   place,  for  it 


LATER    ENGLISH.  301 

made  him  think  that  heaven  was  not  so  unlike  earth 
as  the  teachings  of  Scripture  had  led  him  to  expect ; 
but  he  was  told  that  there  he  was  to  be  gradually  pre- 
pared for  unknown  glories  afterwards  to  be  revealed. 
In  the  inner  apartment  of  the  palace  stood  a  golden 
cup,  with  a  grape-vine  embossed  on  it,  which  he 
learned  was  meant  to  signify  the  living  union  of 
Christ  and  His  people.  But  as  he  and  his  guide 
were  talking,  a  gentle  knock  at  the  door,  before 
him,  announced  the  approach  of  some  one,  when, 
the  portals  unfolding,  revealed  the  majestic  presence 
of  the  Redeemer  of  the  Church.  The  now  glorified 
disciple  immediately  fell  at  the  feet  of  his  gracious 
Lord,  but  was  raised  with  assurances  of  favor,  and  of 
the  kind  acceptance  which  had  been  vouchsafed  to  all 
his  loving  services.  Then  taking  up  the  cup,  and 
drinking  out  of  it,  the  Saviour  put  it  in  His  servant's 
hands,  inviting  him  to  drink,  who  shrunk  from  the 
amazing  honor;  but  was  told,  'If  thou  drink  it  not, 
thou  hast  no  part  with  me.'  He  was  ready  to  sink 
under  the  transport  of  gratitude  and  joy  which  was 
thus  produced,  when  that  condescending  One,  in  con- 
sideration of  his  weakness,  left  him  for  a  while,  with 
the  assurance  that  He  would  soon  return ;  directing 
him,  in  the  mean  time,  to  look  and  meditate  upon  the 
objects  that  were  around  ;  and  lo  !  there  were  pictures 
hung  all  about,  illustrative  of  his  own  pilgrim-life ; 
scene  after  scene  of  trial  and  deliverance,  of  conflict 
and  victory,  meeting  his  eyes,  and  filling  his  heart 
with  love  and  wonder.  And,  as  he  gazed  on  them, 
he  thought,  —  what  we  often  fancy  will  be  the  saint's 
first  thought  in  heaven,  —  how  all  the  perils  of  his 
former  life  were  now  for  ever  over.     Exulting  in  his 


302  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

new-found  safety,  a  burst  of  joy  broke  the  enchant- 
ment of  his  celestial  dream ;  and  he  awoke  again, 
amidst  a  flood  of  tears,  to  the  consciousness  that  he 
was  in  the  body  still." 

It  was  under  the  inspiration  of  this  dream,  that  he 
wrote  that  beautiful  hymn  :  — 

While  on  the  verge  of  hfe  I  stand, 
And  view  the  scene  on  either  hand, 
My  spirit  struggles  with  its  clay, 
And  longs  to  wing  its  flight  away. 

Come,  ye  angelic  convoys,  come,  — 
And  lead  the  willing  pilgrim  home  ; 
Ye  know  the  way  to  that  bright  throne, 
Source  of  my  joys,  and  of  your  own. 

Oh,  for  a  seraph's  voice  to  sing! 
To  fly,  as  on  a  cherub's  wing  ! 
Performing,  with  unwearied  hands, 
A  present  Saviour's  high  commands. 
Yet,  with  these  prospects  full  in  sight, 
I'll  wait  Thy  signal  for  my  flight: 
And  in  Thy  service  here  below. 
Confess  that  heavenly  joys  may  grow. 

Nor  had  he  to  wait  long  for  the  full  fruition  of  his 
desire. 

Doddridge's  prose  is,  we  think,  even  better  than 
his  verse.  Listen  to  his  good  counsel:  "Let  it  be 
our  great  care  to  give  up  ourselves  to  the  Redeemer, 
in  the  bonds  of  an  everlasting  covenant.  While  we 
are  in  this  world,  let  it  be  our  growing  concern,  by 
the  assistance  of  His  grace,  to  be  more  and  more 
transformed  into  His  image,  and  to  subserve  the 
purposes  of  His  glory.  Let  us  pass  the  days  of  our 
pilgrimage  here,  in  frequent  converse  with   Him,  in 


LATER    ENGLISH.  3O3 

continual  devotedness  to  Him,  and  in  the  longing  ex 
pectation  of  that  happy  hour,  which  will  dismiss  us 
from  the  labors  and  sorrows  of  this  mortal  state,  and 
raise  us  to  the  fullest  and  brightest  visions  of  that 
glory,  which,  even  in  this  distant  and  imperfect  pros- 
pect, is  sufficient  to  eclipse  all  the  splendors  of  life, 
and   to   disarm    all   the   terrors   of  death  ! " 

It  is  often  said  that  genius  is  allied  to  madness,  and 
we  have  something  like  a  verification  of  the  case  in 
the  two  following  instances.  The  first  extract  is  said 
to  have  been  composed  by  a  person  partially  insane, 
at  Cirencester,  in  1779  :  — 

Could  we  with  ink  the  ocean  fill, 

Were  the  whole  earth  of  parchmervt  made, 
Were  every  single  stick  a  quill, 

Were  every  man  a  scribe  by  trade  ; 
To  write  the  love  of  God  alone, 

Would  drain  the  ocean  dry ; 
Nor  would  the  scroll  contain  the  whole, 

Though  stretched  from  sky  to  sky. 

The  other  example  is  that  of  Christopher  Smart, 
who  lived  about  the  same  time  (1722-1771),  and  was 
constitutionally  predisposed  to  the  same  malady.  On 
one  occasion,  when  confined  in  an  insane  asylum, 
during  a  lucid  interval,  he  composed  the  following 
remarkable  poem  on  David,  consisting  of  nearly  one 
hundred  stanzas.  Being  deprived  of  pen  and  ink, 
it  is  said,  he  was  obliged  to  indent  his  lines  with  p 
key  upon  the  wainscot  of  his  room. 

Sublime  invention,  ever  young, 
Of  vast  conception,  towering  tongue, 
To  God,  the  eternal  theme  ; 


304  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Notes  from  your  exaltation  caught, 
Unrivalled  royalty  of  thought, 
O'er  meaner  thoughts  supreme. 

He  sang  of  God,  the  mighty  source 
Of  all  things  ;  that  stupendous  force 

On  which  all  strength  depends  ; 
From  whose  right  arm,  beneath  whose  eyes. 
All  period,  power,  and  enterprise 

Commences,  reigns,  and  ends. 


The  world,  the  clustering  spheres,  He  made, 
The  glorious  light,  the  soothing  shade, 

Dale,  champaign,  grove,  and  hill ; 
The  multitudinous  abyss, 
Where  secrecy  remains  in  bliss, 

And  wisdom  hides  her  skill. 

"  Tell  them  I  AM,"  Jehovah  said 
To  Moses  ;  while  earth  heard  in  dread ; 

And,  smitten  to  the  heart. 
At  once  above,  beneath,  around, 
All  Nature,  without  voice  or  sound, 

Replied,  "  O  Lord,  Thou  art !  " 

We  meet,  in  our  poetic  rambles,  with  these  sublime 
Imes,  addressed  to  the  Deity,  written  by  Boyse,  who 
lived  in  the  early  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  :  — 

Exalted  Power,  invisible,  supreme  ! 

Thou  sovereign,  sole,  unutterable  name  ! 

As  round  Thy  throne  Thy  flaming  seraphs  stand. 

And  touch  the  golden  lyre  with  trembling  hand ; 

Too  weak  Thy  pure  effulgence  to  behold,  — 

With  their  rich  plumes  their  dazzled  eyes  infold ; 

Transported  with  the  ardors  of  Thy  praise. 

The  "  Holy,  holy,  holy  !  "  anthem  raise. 

To  them  responsive,  let  creation  sing 

Thee,  —  indivisible,  eternal  King! 


LATER    ENGLISH. 


305 


Two  of  our  most  popular  hymns,  commencing  "Sweet 
the  moments,  rich  in  blessing,"  and  "Lord,  dismiss  us 
with  thy  blessing,"  were  written  by  the  Rev.  Walter 
Shirley,  of  Galway,  Ireland.  The  following  is  the 
only  hymn  known  to  have  been  written  by  Hervey, 
author  gf  "Meditations  among  the  Tombs  :" — 

Since  all  the  downward  tracts  of  time 

God's  watchful  eye  surveys, 
Oh,  who  so  wise  to  choose  our  lot 

And  regulate  our  ways  ? 

Since  none  can  doubt  His  equal  love, 

Unmeasurably  kind, 
To  His  unerring,  gracious  will 

Be  every  wish  resigned. 

Good  when  he  gives,  supremely  good  ; 

Nor  less,  when  he  denies  ; 
Even  crosses,  from  His  sovereign  hand. 

Are  blessings  in  disguise. 

Byron  considered  Gray's  "Elegy"  the  corner-stone 
of  his  glory,  and  he  is  not  alone  in  the  estimate  of  this 
masterpiece  of  song.  Let  us  rehearse  some  of  the  ma- 
jestic stanzas  :  — 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade. 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

The  boast  of  Heraldry,  the  pomp  of  Power, 
And  all  that  Beauty,  all  that  Wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  ahke  the  inevitable  hour : 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 


306  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where,  tlirough  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault, 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust. 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 

Or  P'lattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  Death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire, — 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear : 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

What  must  the  excellence  of  the  finished  poem  be, 
from  which  the  author  deliberately  rejected  two  such 
stanzas  as  these,  after  they  had  been  once  inserted !  — 

Hark,  how  the  sacred  calm  that  breathes  around. 
Bids  every  fierce,  tumultuous  passion  cease,  — 

In  still,  small  accents  breathing  from  the  ground 
A  grateful  earnest  of  eternal  peace. 

And  this,  descriptive  of  the  rustic  tomb  of  the  village 
scholar :  — 

There  scattered  oft,  the  earliest  of  the  year. 
By  hands  unseen,  are  showers  of  violets  found: 

The  red-breast  loves  to  build  and  warble  there. 
And  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground. 

Hazlitt  considered  the  "Elegy"  "one  of  the  most 
classical  productions  ever  penned  by  a  refined  and 
thoughtful  mind,  moralizing  on  human  life."     There 


LATER    ENGLISH.  3O7 

are  two  manuscripts  of  it  in  existence  :  in  1854,  they 
were  sold  at  auction,  —  one,  for  one  hundred  pounds; 
and  the  other,  which  contained  five  additional  stanzas, 
never  printed  in  the  published  editions,  for  one  hun- 
dred and  thirty  pounds.  The  old  tower  of  Upton 
Church  (Gray's  "ivy-mantled  tower")  is  still  a  mosi 
picturesque  object,  although  fast  falling  into  decay. 
The  memory  of  the  bard  is,  however,  even  more 
closely  associated  with  another  locality,  that  of  Stoke 
Pocfis.  It  was  here  he  wrote,  wandered,  and  died; 
and  here,  too,  all  that  was  mortal  of  him  sleeps,  un- 
der "the  yew-tree's  shade."  After  recovering  from  the 
dazzling  fascination  of  these  beautiful  stanzas,  and  on 
returning  to  the  "  Elegy,"  deliberately  to  scan  its  words, 
we  find  no  intimations  of  a  "life  beyond  life."  This 
omission  and  defect,  in  one  of  the  grandest  odes  of  our 
English  anthology,  has  tempted  an  American  pen, 
with  much  success,  to  supply, — 

Though  they,  each  tome  of  human  lore  unknown, 
The  briUiant  path  of  science  never  trod, 

The  sacred  volume  claimed  their  hearts  alone, 
Which  taught  the  way  to  glory  and  to  God. 

Here  they  from  Truth's  eternal  fountain  drew 
The  pure  and  gladdening  waters,  day  by  day ; 

Learnt,  since  our  days  were  evil,  fleet,  and  few, 
To  walk  in  wisdom's  bright  and  peaceful  way. 

When  life  flowed  by,  and,  like  an  angel,  Death 
Came  to  release  them  to  the  world  on  high, 

Praise  trembled  still  on  each  expiring  breath, 
And  holy  triumph  beamed  from  every  eye. 

Then  gentle  hands  their  "  dust  to  dust "  consign, 
With  quiet  tears  the  simple  rites  are  said,  — 

And  here  they  sleep,  till,  at  the  trump  divine, 
The  earth  and  ocean  render  up  their  dead. 


308  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

In  good  old  times,  when  hymn-books  were  scarce, 
it  was  the  custom  in  many  of  the  dissenting  churches 
for  the  clerk  to  read  out  a  line  or  couplet  of  a  hymn, 
so  that  those  who  were  without  books  might  unite  in 
the  singing.  There  is  a  story  told  of  an  officiating 
minister  of  a  Methodist  chapel  in  Georgia,  years  ago, 
who,  having  left  his  spectacles  at  home  on  one  occa- 
sion, intended  to  announce  to  the  congregation  that 
the  singing  would  be  dispensed  with :   he  arose,  and 

said,  — 

My  eyes  are  dim,  I  cannot  see ; 

and  immediately  the  chorister  commenced  singing  the 
words  to  the  tune  of  "Old  Hundred."  Surprise  and 
mortification  made  the  clergyman  almost  speechless ; 
but  he  made  an  effort  to  stammer  out,  — 

I  meant  but  an  apology. 

This  line  was  taken  up  by  the  congregation  in  the 
same  manner;  when  the  dominie,  becoming  much 
excited,  exclaimed, — 

Forbear,  I  pray :  my  sight  is  dim. 

But  all  remonstrance  seemed  to  be  vain  :  the  sinjrinof 
went  on ;  while,  in  accents  of  despair,  he  again  cried 

out, — 

I  do  not  mean  to  read  a  hymn ; 

a  declaration  so  palpable,  that  at  length  it  had  the 
effect  of  restraining  the  ardor,  and  silencing  the  vocif- 
erous singers.* 

We  Americans  ought  to  be  a  musical,  psalm-singing 
people  ;  for  the  first  press  "  put  up  "  in  Cambridge,  in 
1639,  by  Stephen  Day,  was  devoted  to  the  printing 
**  The  Psalms  in  Metre  :  faithfully  translated  for  the 

•  W.  C.  Richards. 


LATER    ENGLISH.  3O9 

use,  edification,  and  comfort  of  the  saints,  in  public  and 
private,  especially  in  New  England."  And  a  worthy 
act  it  was,  on  the  part  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  that 
they  accorded  to  that  same  Stephen  Day  the  grant  of 
"three  hundred  acres  of  land,  where  it  may  be  con- 
venient without  prejudice  to  any  town,"  as  an  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  good  services  in  the  department  of 
psalmody. 

Instances  are  upon  record  of  discord  having  occurred 
between  the  pulpit  and  the  choir  ;  but  perhaps  the  least 
said  on  this  subject,  the  better.  We  might  mention  the 
case,  however,  of  a  strange  clergyman,  who  had  been 
invited  to  officiate  in  a  New-England  church,  in  the 
absence  of  the  pastor.  Not  being  familiar  with  some 
of  the  rules  of  the  choir,  he  caused  them  so  much 
offence,  that  they  would  not  sing.  After  several  efforts, 
the  preacher  determined  not  to  be  discomfited,  and  read 
the  verse, — 

"  Let  those  refuse  to  sing  who  never  knew  our  God  ; 
But  children  of  the  heavenly  King  may  speak  their  joys  abroad." 

This  roused  the  entire  congre oration,  who  waited  not 
for  the  choir  to  lead  them. 

Among  our  English  hymnists,  the  Wesleys^ —  Charles 
and  John  —  shine  as  twin  stars,  and  stars  also  of  the 
first  magnitude.  John  was  educated  at  Oxford ;  and 
subsequently,  impelled  by  missionary  zeal,  he  went,  in 
company  with  his  brother  Charles,  in  1735,  on  a  mis- 
sion to  Georgia,  to  preach  to  the  settlers  and  Indians. 
But,  though  unsuccessful,  this  mission  to  America  was 
attended  with  most  important  results  to  the  Wesleys, 
through  the  spiritual  benefits  they  derived  from  the 
Moravian  Christians,  who  sailed  with  them  in  the  same 


3IO  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS 

ship.  On  his  return  to  England,  in  173S,  John  "Wes 
ley  formed,  in  conjunction  with  Whitefield  and  others, 
the  first  Methodist  society,  at  the  Moravian  chapel,  in 
Fetter  Lane,  London.  From  that  period  to  the  end  of 
his  long  and  laborious  life,  he  was  constantly  engaged 
in  going  from  place  to  place  to  preach  the  gospel.  He 
met  with  much  opposition,  and  sometimes  personal 
violence  ;  but  this  did  not  deter  him  from  prosecuting 
his  great  work.  John  translated  several  h3'mns  from 
the  German  ;  but  his  brother  Charles  composed  the 
multitude*  of  beautiful  hymns  that  bear  the  name  of 
Wesley.  He  at  least  equalled  Watts,  in  the  average 
excellence  of  his  hymns  :  in  these  respects,  he  stands 
foremost  among  the  priesthood  of  Christian  min- 
strelsy. 

Though  the  eighteenth  century  was  rife  with  scep- 
tics and  doubters,  it  had  also  valiant  defenders  of 
Christianity.  It  had  "its  hearts  of  faith  and  tongues 
of  fire."  The  age  of  Rousseau  and  Voltaire  was  also 
the  age  of  Whitefield  and  Wesley,  —  two  names  not  to 
be  ignored;  men  who,  although  they  have  passed 
away,  yet  live  in  the  loving  memories  of  thousands, 
nay,  hundreds  of  thousands,  of  persons.  With  the 
advent  of  Methodism  came  a  new  and  deeper  out- 
burst of  sacred  song  in  the  Church ;  and  with  it 
a  Pentecostal  baptism  of  both  its  clerical  and  la}- 
members.  Most  of  the  numerous  hymns  of  the  Wes- 
le3^s  are  eminently  lyrical ;  some,  however,  are  fine 
poems. 

To  attempt  an  enumeration  of  their  finest  lyrical 
productions  would  be  no  easy  task,  where  there  are  so 
many  of  varied  excellence.     The  following  are  beyond 

•  Charlea  VVesiey  published  4,100  hymns,  and  left  upwards  of  1,000  others  in  manuscript. 


LATER    ENGLISH.  3II 

the  pale  of  criticism,  and  need  only  time  to  render 
them  classic:  it  will  suffice  to  mention  the  first  lines 
of  some  of  the  best. 

O  Love  Divine,  how  svi^eet  Thou  art ! 

Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul ! 

The  heavens  declare  Thy  glory,  Lord. 

Hark  !  the  herald  angels  sing. 
Glory  to  the  new-born  King ! 

or,  rather,  as  the  author  originally  wrote  it,  — 

Hark!  how  all  the  welkin  rings, — 
Glory  to  the  King  of  kings  ! 

All  must  feel  the  force  and  poetry  of  such  lines  as 

these :  — 

On  faith's  strong  eagle-pinions  rise. 
And  force  your  passage  to  the  skies, 
And  scale  the  mount  of  God. 


I  want  a  principle  within  of  jealous,  godly  fear, 

A  sensibihty  of  sin,  a  pain  to  feel  it  near  ; 

I  want  the  first  approach  to  feel  of  pride  or  fond  desire. 

To  catch  the  wandering  of  my  will,  and  quench  the  kindling  fire. 

From  Thee  that  I  no  more  may  part,  no  more  Thy  goodness  grieve, 

The  filial  awe,  the  fleshly  heart,  the  tender  conscience  give. 

The  spot  where  Charles  Wesley  composed  that  fine 

hymn, 

Lo  !  on  a  narrow  neck  of  land, 
'Twixt  two  unbounded  seas  I  stand 

(so  eminently  suggestive  of  the  grand  thought) ,  was 
the  last  projecting  point  of  rock  at  Land's-End,  Corn- 
wall, stretching  out  between  the  Bristol  and  English 
Channel.    It  is  really  "  a  narrow  neck  of  land,"  jutdng 


312  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

out  into  the  Atlantic.  With  scarcely  a  foot-room  be- 
neath you,  you  have  on  either  side  a  precipice,  with 
the  sea  raging  and  roaring  at  its  base ;  and,  whether 
you  turn  to  the  right  hand  or  the  left,  your  eye  meets 
a  vast  expanse  of  ocean.  Montgomery  says  of  this 
hymn:  "It  is  a  sublime  contemplation,  —  solemn,  col- 
lected, unimpassioned  thought,  — but  thought  occupied 
with  that  which  is  of  everlasting  import  to  a  dying 
man  standing  on  the  lapse  of  a  moment  between  two 
eternities." 

Southey  thought  Charles  Wesley's  hymn,  "Stand 
the  omnipotent  decree,"  the  finest  lyric  in  the  English 
language. 

Were  we  to  indicate  two  or  three  others  of  his  most 
successful  hymns,  they  would  include  the  following: 
"Light  of  life,  seraphic  fire,"  "Shrinking  from  the 
cold  hand  of  Death,"  and  "Love  Divine,  all  loves 
excelling." 

When  Wesley  was  preaching,  on  one  occasion,  in 
Kelso  churchyard,  Walter  Scott  was  arrested  by  his 
appeals  :  he  lingered  and  listened,  and  returned  home 
to  ponder  the  great  subject  of  personal  religion. 

About  twenty  years  ago,  on  a  winter's  night,  a  heavy 
gale  set  in  upon  the  precipitous,  rock-bound  coast  near 
the  Bristol  Channel.  A  little  coasting  vessel  struggled 
bravely,  but  in  vain,  with  the  tempest.  One  dark, 
fearful  headland  could  not  be  weathered, —  the  bark 
must  go  ashore.  Then  came  the  last  desperate  effort 
of  the  captain  and  his  ship's  crew.  Their  toiling  at  the 
oars  was  soon  over, — their  boat  was  swamped.  They 
were  supposed  to  have  all  sunk  together ;  for,  in  the 
morning,  they  were  found  lying  side  by  side  upon  a 
reedy  rock.     On  visiting  the  wreck,  and  going  below 


LATER    ENGLISH,  313 

to  the  cabin,  there  was  found  lying  on  the  table  the 
captain's  hymn-book,  opened  at  the  page  containing 
that  delightful  hymn,  — 

Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul ! 
Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly, — 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 
While  the  tempest  still  is  high. 

It  is  stated  that  the  great  British  statesman,  Cobden, 
left  the  world  with  the  lines  of  one  of  John  Wesley's 
hymns  upon  his  lip.  It  is  one  of  his  translations  from 
the  German,  and  reads  thus  :  — 

Thee  will  I  love,  my  Joy,  my  Crown ! 
Thee  will  I  love,  my  Lord,  my  God ! 
Thee  will  I  love,  beneath  Thy  frown 
Or  smile,  Thy  sceptre  or  Thy  rod  : 
What  though  my  flesh  and  heart  decay. 
Thee  shall  I  love  in  endless  day. 

John  Wesley  wrote  one  hymn  which  is  supposed  to 
mark  some  phases  of  his  personal  experience.  It 
commences,  — 

How  happy  is  the  pilgrim's  lot ! 
How  free  from  every  anxious  thought ! 
From  worldly  hope  and  fear. 

Referring  to  this  hymn,  Mr.  Christophers  relates  a 
remarkable  instance  of  the  conversion  of  a  singular 
character,  who  lived  in  the  West  of  England,  and  to 
whom  the  words  might  fitly  be  applied.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  hymn  were  made  expressly  for  him,  since  there 
was  scarcely  a  day,  through  his  somewhat  lengthened 
life,  in  which  some  stanza  of  it  was  not  on  his  lips. 
"  Foolish  Dick  "  people  called  him  ;  for  in  early  life  he 
was  quite  unequal  to  any  kind  of  labor  requiring  men- 
tal exercise.     But  he  proved  to  be  susceptible  of  relig- 


314  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

ious  impressions,  notwithstanding  his  seeming  idiocy. 
Dick  was  one  morning  on  his  way  to  the  well  for  water, 
when  an  aged  Christian,  who  was  leaning  over  the 
garden-gate,  said,  "So  you  are  going  to  the  well  for 
water,  Dick."  —  "Yes,  sir." — "Well,  Dick,  the  woman 
of  Samaria  found  Jesus  Christ  at  the  well."  —  "Did  she, 
sir?"  That  was  enough  :  a  quickening  thought  had 
struck  into  his  half-awakened  mind  ;  and  when  he  came 
to  the  well,  he  said  to  himself,  yet  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  by  his  Saviour,  "Why  should  not  I  find  Jesus 
Christ  at  the  well?  Oh  that  I  could  find  Him  !  Will 
He  come  to  me?"  His  prayer  was  heard;  and  Dick 
returned,  not  only  bearing  his  full  pitcher,  but  also 
that  "well  of  water  springing  up  into  everlasting  life." 
John  Wesley,  the  theologian,  every  year  travelled 
many  thousand  miles ;  and  even  on  horseback  he  was 
at  his  book,  and  at  the  stopping-places  was  ready  with 
pen  and  voice.  He  wrote  upon  a  great  variety  of 
subjects,  but  religion  was  indeed  the  predominating 
one.  He  was  the  father  of  the  system  of  cheap  books 
for  the  people.  From  the  sale  of  his  publications,  he 
derived  the  chief  means  of  his  great  charities.  To  his 
honor  be  it  recorded,  the  amount  ascertained  to  have 
been  given  away  by  him  exceeded  a  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars.  Consistently  enough  might  he  preach 
that  close  and  judicious  sermon  "  Money,"  under  the 
three  heads :  "gain  all  you  can,  save  all  3'ou  can,  and 
give  all  you  can."  It  is  less  difficult  with  many  to 
adopt  the  first  two  heads,  than  the  last.  At  the  age 
ol'  seventy  even,  he  preached  in  the  open  air,  to 
thirty  thousand  persons,  so  clear  and  strong  was  his 
voice.  He  must  have  been  a  picturesque  old  man, 
from  the  descriptions  given  of  his  fcrso7incI,  —  with 


LATER    ENGLISH.  315 

his  clear  forehead,  white  hair,  and  piercing  eye ;  even 
his  dress  was  characteristic,  —  the  perfection  of  neat- 
ness and  simphcity.  He  is  said  to  have  been  the 
originator  of  the  phrase,  "cleanHness  is  next  to  god- 
liness." One  book  he  always  carried  with  him  in 
his  journeys,  besides  the  Bible:  it  was  his  "Diary." 
Would  we  learn  what  view  of  life  this  worthy  minis- 
ter of  the  gospel  took?  He  tells  us  on  his  eighty -sixth 
birthday  :  "  This  day,  I  enter  on  my  eighty-sixth  year ; 
and  what  cause  have  I  to  praise  God,  as  for  a  thousand 
spiritual  blessings,  so  for  bodily  blessings  also.  How 
little  have  I  suffered  yet  by  the  rush  of  numerous 
years.  ...  I  am  not  conscious  of  any  decay  in 
writing  sermons,  which  I  do  as  readily,  and,  I  be- 
lieve, as  correctly  as  ever.  To  what  cause  can  I 
impute  this,  that  I  am  as  I  am?  First,  doubtless,  to 
the  power  of  God,  fitting  me  for  the  work  to  which 
I  am  called,  as  long  as  He  pleases  to  continue  me 
therein  ;  and  next,  subordinately  to  this,  the  prayers 
of  His  children.  May  we  not  impute  it  as  inferior 
means  :  first,  to  my  constant  exercise  and  change  of 
air;  second,  to  my  never  having  lost  a  night's  sleep, 
sick  or  well,  at  land  or  at  sea,  since  I  was  born  ; 
third,  to  my  having  sleep  at  command,  so  that  when- 
ever I  feel  myself  almost  worn  out,  I  call  it,  and  it 
comes  day  or  night;  fourth,  to  my  having  con- 
stantly, for  about  sixty  years,  risen  at  four  in  the 
morning;  fifth,  to  my  constant  preaching  at  five  in 
the  morning  for  above  fifty  years ;  sixth,  to  my 
having  had  so  little  pain  in  my  life,  and  so  little 
sorrow,  or  anxious  care?  Even  now,  though  I  find 
pain  daily  in  my  eye,  or  temple,  or  arm,  yet  it  is 
never  violent,   and  seldom   lasts   many  minutes   at  a 


3l6  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

time.  Whether  or  not  this  is  sent  to  give  me  warning 
that  I  am  shortly  to  quit  this  tabernacle,  I  do  not 
know ;  but  be  it  one  way,  or  the  other,  I  have  only 
to  say, — 

My  remnant  of  days  I  spend  to  His  praise, 

Who  died  the  whole  world  to  redeem  ; 
Be  they  many  or  few,  my  days  are  His  due, 
And  they  all  are  devoted  to  Him  !  " 

So  it  proved,  three  years  afterwards:  in  1791,  at  the 
age  of  eighty-eight,  he  breathed  his  last,  with  a  hymn 
of  praise  on  his  lips.  With  the  little  strength  remain- 
ing, he  cried  out  to  his  friends  watching  his  departure, 
"  The  best  of  all  is,  God  is  with  us  ;  "  and  could  only 
whisper  the  first  two  words  of  a  favorite  psalm,  "  I'll 
praise,  I'll  praise,"  and  Wesley's  kindly  voice  was  to 
be  heard  no  more.  At  the  time  of  his  death,  more 
than  one  hundred  thousand  persons  looked  to  him  as 
their  guide  to  heaven;  since  then,  that  number  has 
become  a  million. 

Said  Southey,  half  a  century  ago,  "There  may 
come  a  time  when  the  name  of  Wesley  will  be  more 
generally  known,  and  in  remoter  regions  of  the  globe, 
than  that  of  Frederick,  or  of  Catharine.  For  the 
works  of  such  men  survive  them,  and  continue  to 
operate,  when  nothing  remains  of  worldly  ambition 
but  the  memory  of  its  vanity  and  its  guilt."  That 
prophecy  has  already  been  accomplished;  and  "the 
fragrance  of  that  name  growls  richer  with  the  lapse  of 
time."  Even  the  minor  events  and  incidents  of  such  a 
life  as  that  of  the  greatest  evangelist  of  modern  times 
are  replete  with  interest  to  us ;  and,  as  these  have 
been  garnered  up  by  a  loving  pen,*  we  cull  a  few  for 
our  entertainment. 

•  Wakeley's  Wesley. 


LATER    ENGLISH.  317 

Many  of  the  clerical  celebrities  of  the  past  age  have 
furnished  no  little  amusement  by  their  eccentricities : 
but  here  is  an  instance  of  the  comic,  concerning  a 
clerk  of  the  Rev.  Samuel  Wesley,  father  of  his  more 
renowned  sons.  This  clerk  was  susceptible  of  a  w^eak 
point,  —  vanity  :  he  believed  his  rector  was  the  greatest 
man  in  the  parish,  if  not  in  the  country,  and  that  he 
himself  stood  next  to  him  in  importance.  He  took  a 
fancy  of  wearing  Mr.  Wesley's  cast-off  clothes  and 
wigs ;  for  the  latter  of  which  his  head  was  far  too 
small,  and  the  figure  he  cut  in  it  was  ludicrously 
grotesque.  One  morning,  before  church-time,  Mr. 
Wesley  said,  "John,  I  shall  preach  on  a  particular 
subject  to-day,  and  shall  choose  my  own  psalm,  of 
which  I  shall  give  out  the  first  line,  and  you  shall  pro- 
ceed as  usual.  John  was  pleased ;  and  the  service 
went  forward,  as  usual,  till  they  came  to  the  singing, 
when  Mr.  W.  gave  out  the  following  line  :  — 
"  Like  to  an  owl  in  ivy  bush,"  — 

This  was  sung,  and  the  following  line.  John,  peering 
out  of  the  huge  canonical  wig  in  which  his  head  was 
half  lost,  gave  out,  with  an  audible  voice,  and  an 
appropriate  connecting  twang,  — 

"  That  rueful  thing  am  I  !  " 
The  whole  congregation  saw  and  felt  the  force  of  the 
similitude,  and  their  gravity  was  turned  into  irresistible 
laughter.  This  same  Samuel  Wesley  is  portrayed  by 
his  biographers  as  a  most  exemplary  and  noble  Chris- 
tian minister,  and  one  of  the  most  affectionate  fathers 
that  ever  lived.  He  was  a  persevering  man  also ; 
struggling  with  poverty,  and  bending  under  the  weight 


3l8  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

of  seventy  years,  he  was  endeavoring  to  bring  out 
his  elaborate  work,  written  in  Latin,  on  the  book 
of  Job,  —  a  work  which  occupied  his  studio'^s  hours 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  — when  his  right  hand  was 
stricken  with  paralysis,  and  he  could  no  longer  hold  a 
pen.  In  this  emergency,  his  faith  and  courage  did 
not  desert  him  :  he  calmly  says,  "  I  have  already  lost 
one  hand  in  the  service,  yet,  I  thank  God,  non  deficit 
altera;  *  and  I  begin  to  put  the  other  hand  to  school 
this  day,  to  learn  to  write,  in  order  to  help  its  lame 
brother." 

Not  the  father  of  the  Wesley s  only  was  noble,  but 
the  mother  was  no  less  excellent.  She  was,  indeed, 
justly  called  "the  Mother  of  Methodism  ;"  for,  during 
her  husband's  absence  in  London,  attending  conven- 
tion, Mrs.  Wesley  held  meetings  in  the  parsonage,  at 
which  the  family  and  servants  attended ;  and  daily  the 
numbers  increased,  till  the  rooms  were  crowded  to 
excess.  These  meetings  were  held,  "because  she 
thought  the  end  of  the  institution  of  the  Sabbath  was 
not  fully  answered  by  attending  church,  unless  the 
intermediate  spaces  of  time  were  filled  up  by  acts  of 
devotion."  Who  can  tell  the  influence  those  meetings 
of  their  mother  in  the  parsonage  had  upon  John  and 
Charles  in  future  years?  This  excellent  woman,  writ- 
ing to  her  son  John,  says,  "Would  you  judge  of  the 
lawfulness  or  unlawfulness  of  pleasure,  of  the  inno- 
cence or  malignity  of  actions?  Take  this  rule  :  What- 
ever weakens  your  reason,  impairs  the  tenderness  of 
your  conscience,  obscures  your  sense  of  God,  or  takes 
off  the  relish  of  spiritual  things ;  in  short,  whatevei 
increases  the  strength  and  authority  of  your  body  ovej 

•  The  other  does  not  fail  mc 


LATER    ENGLISH.  319 

your  mind,  that  thing  is  sin  to  you,  however  innocent 
it  may  be  in  itself."  Good  counsel  this  for  the  present 
day. 

John  Wesley's  life-story  seems  to  have  illustrated  the 
beautiful  lines  of  "  Festus  "  Bailey  :  — 

"  He  most  lives, 
Who  thinks  most,  feels  the  noblest,  acts  the  best ;  " 

for  assuredly  few  human  lives  were  so  richly  endowed, 
and  so  prolific  of  good  to  others,  as  his.  His  aims 
and  ideas  were  all  on  a  grand  scale ;  the  world  at 
large  was  his  parish,  as  he  himself  once  said  ;  and  his 
audiences  were  tenfold  the  extent  of  most  other  min- 
isters of  the  Cross.  As  to  his  bodily  presence,  he  was 
small ;  yet,  as  to  his  mental  and  spiritual  power,  he 
was  gigantic.  The  words  of  a  friend,  "The  Bible 
knows  nothing  of  a  solitary  religion :  you  must  find 
some  companions,  or  make  them,"  seemed  to  have 
had  a  controlling  influence  upon  Wesley's  whole  after 
life ;  and  thence  upon  the  destiny  of,  maybe,  millions 
of  souls. 

Mr.  Wesley  was,  at  first,  a  reader  of  sermons,  and 
thought  he  could  preach  in  no  other  way ;  but,  for- 
tunately for  his  great  success,  he  was  compelled  by 
an  accident  to  preach  on  one  occasion  extempore. 
."  It  is  fifty  years  since  I  first  preached  in  this  church  " 
(All-hallows  Church,  London),  said  Mr.  W.  :  ''I  re- 
member it,  from  a  peculiar  circumstance  that  occurred 
at  that  time.  I  came  without  a  sermon  ;  and,  going  up 
into  the  pulpit-stairs,  I  hesitated,  and  returned  into  the 
vestry,  under  much  mental  confusion  and  agitation. 
A  woman  that  was  there,  noticing  this,  said,  'Pray, 
sir,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? '     I  replied,  '  I  have 


320  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

not  brought  a  sermon  with  me.'  Putting  her  hand 
upon  my  shoulder,  she  said,  'Is  that  all?  Cannot 
3''ou  trust  God  for  a  sermon  ? '  That  question  had 
such  an  effect  upon  me,  that  I  ascended  the  pulpit 
and  preached  extempore,  with  great  freedom  to  my- 
self, and  acceptance  to  the  people ;  and  I  have  never 
since  taken  a  written  sermon  into  the  pulpit." 

Wesley  was  earnestly  opposed  to  "  screaming "  in 
the  pulpit.  "  Speak  with  all  your  heart,"  he  says  in 
his  letter  to  one  of  his  associates,  "but  with  a  moderate 
voice.  It  was  said  of  our  Lord,  '  He  shall  not  cry,'  — 
the  word  means  scream.  Herein  be  a  follower  of  me, 
as  I  am  of  Christ."  One  secret  of  Mr.  Wesley's  won- 
derful power  in  preaching  consisted  in  its  adaptation, 
directness,  simplicity,  and  earnestness ;  characteristics 
which  also  distinguish  our  modern  Wesley,  —  Spur- 
geon.  No  wonder  Mr.  Wesley  had  fruit  from  the  first 
sermon  he  preached  on  his  father's  tombstone.  One  of 
his  hearers,  on  that  occasion,  was  a  gentleman  who 
boasted  that  he  had  not  been  to  church  in  thirty 
years.  The  churchyard  scene  —  a  man  preaching 
in  the  midst  of  graves,  and  over  the  dust  of  his  father 
—  led  him  to  attend  and  hear  Mr.  Wesley.  When 
the  sermon  was  ended,  the  gentleman  stood  as  if  he 
was  transfixed,  looking  up  to  heaven.  Mr.  Wesle}'' 
inquired  of  him,  "Are  3'ou  a  sinner? "  With  a  tearful 
eye,  quivering  lip,  and  faltering  voice,  he  answered, 
"  Sinner  enough  ! "  and  he  remained  looking  up  till 
his  friends  thrust  him  into  his  carriage,  and  hurried 
him  home.  Ten  years  after,  Mr.  Wesley  saw  him, 
and  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  him  "strong  in 
faith,  though  feeble  in  body,  and  giving  glory  to 
God."      His   first    sermon,    in   the    open   fields,    was 


LATER    ENGLISH.  32I 

preached  at  Kingswood,  and  from  this  singularly 
apposite  text, — the  rain  descending  in  torrents,  as 
he  stood  under  a  sycamore-tree,  —  "As  the  rain 
Cometh  down  and  the  snow  from  heaven,  and  re- 
turneth  not  thither,  but  watereth  the  earth,  and 
maketh  it  to  bring  forth  and  bud,  that  it  may  give 
seed  to  the  sower  and  bread  to  the  eater,"  &c. 

Wesley  was  methodical,  and  therefore  he  accom- 
plished more  than  most  other  men,  opportunities  being 
equal.  His  maxim  was,  "Alwa3^s  in  haste,  but  never 
in  a  hurry."  He  said,  "Leisure  and  I  have  taken 
leave  of  each  other."  "  Make  the  most  of  a  short  life," 
was  another  of  his  wise  saws.  Wesley  was  a  great 
lover  of  nature  :  he  could  find 

"  Books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing." 

On  one  occasion,  he,  with  some  friends,  was  admir- 
ing the  fine  scenery  near  Chatham,  when  he  exclaimed, 
"  Why  should  we  give  the  landscape  all  the  praise,  and 
the  Author  none?"  and  he  sang,  and  the  rest  joined 
in  singing,  Watts's  beautiful  hymn, — 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  :  'tis  good  to  raise 
Your  hearts  and  voices  in  His  praise  : 
His  nature  and  His  works  invite 
To  make  this  duty  our  delight. 

John  Wesley  considered  that  hymn  of  his  brother, 
"Come,  let  us  join  our  friends  above,"  the  sweetest  he 
ever  wrote.  As  the  shadows  of  evening  were  gather- 
ing around  him,  he,  on  one  occasion,  ascended  the 
pulpit  at  City-road  Chapel,  London,  and,  for  some 
moments  looking  up  to  heaven,  as  if  communing  with 
the  mighty  dead,  broke  the  solemn  stillness  by  giving 


322  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

out  the  words  of  this  same  hymn.  There  was  another 
great  favorite  with  him,  written  also  by  his  brother 
Charles,  called  "Wrestling  Jacob:"  "Come,  O  Thou 
Traveller  unknown  ! " 

Mr.  Wesley  was  on  a  visiting  tour,  and,  before  preach- 
ing at  a  certain  missionary  station,  he  gave  out  the 
words,  and  as  he  proceeded  his  speech  began  to  falter, 
and  tears  flowed  down  his  cheeks  :  the  entire  audience 
was  deeply  affected,  sorrowing  most  of  all  because  they 
were  persuaded  that  they  should  see  his  face  no  more. 
That  hymn  it  was,  which  Watts,  with  great  nobility 
of  spirit,  said  was  worth  all  the  verses  which  he  had 
ever  written.  What  a  fine  couplet  is  this,  also  from 
his  pen  !  — 

The  cross,  on  which  He  bows  His  head, 
Shall  lift  us  to  the  skies. 

The  distinguished  Moravian,  Peter  Boehler,  during 
his  visit  to  England,  was  not  only  useful  to  John  Wes- 
ley, but  also  to  his  brother  Charles.  When  he  was 
sick,  in  London,  in  1737,  he  sent  for  his  friend,  who 
promptly  obeyed  the  summons.  On  Wesley's  recovery, 
and  conversion  to  the  doctrines  of  faith,  his  German 
friend  rebuked  his  disinclination  publicly  to  confess  it, 
by  saying,  "If  you  had  a  thousand  tongues,  you  should 
publish  it  with  them  all."  It  is  said  that  the  composi 
tion  of  his  well-known  hymn. 

Oh  for  a  thousand  tongues,  to  sing 
My  great  Redeemer's  praise ! 

was  written  in  commemoration  of  the  anniversary  of 
his  spiritual  birth. 

Handel  composed  tunes  expressly  for  several  of 
Charles  Wesley's  hymns  :  for  instance,  he  set  to  music 
those  beginning,   "Sinners,   obey  the  gospel  word," 


LATER   ENGLISH.  323 

"O  Love  Divine,  how  sweet  thou  art!"  and  "Rejoice, 
the  Lord  is  King." 

The  musical  manuscripts,  in  Handel's  own  hand- 
writing, are  preserved  in  the  Library  of  Cambridge 
University.  Wesley  thus  refers  to  the  great  composer 
of  "The  Messiah,"  in  his  fine  elegy  on  the  death  of 
Dr.  Boyce,  —  as  striking  his  golden  harp  with  angels 
and  archangels  before  the  throne  of  God  :  — 

The  generous,  good,  and  upright  heart, 

That  sighed  for  a  celestial  lyre, 
Was  tuned  on  earth,  to  bear  a  part 

Sj-mphonious  with  that  warbling  choir 
Where  Handel  strikes  the  golden  strings, 
And  plaintive  angels  strike  their  wings. 

Charles  Wesley's  last  hymn  was  written  the  day  that 
he  lay  silent  for  some  time,  "  in  age  and  extreme  feeble- 
ness:" he  called  his  wife,  and  requested  her  to  write 
the  following  lines,  as  he  dictated  them  :  — 

In  age  and  feebleness  extreme, 
Who  shall  a  helpless  worm  redeem  ? 
Jesus,  my  only  hope  Thou  art, 
Strength  of  my  failing  flesh  and  heart : 
Oh,  could  I  catch  a  smile  from  Thee, 
And  drop  into  eternity ! 

Was  there  ever  a  better  dying  song? 

Wilberforce  may  be  classed  among  the  friends  of 
Wesley.  They  met  for  the  first  time  at  Hannah  More's 
house,  Clifton,  near  Bristol.  "I  went  in  1786  to  see 
Hannah  More,"  says  Wilberforce  ;  "and,  when  I  came 
into  the  room,  Charles  Wesley  arose  from  the  table, 
around  which  a  numerous  party  sat  at  tea,  and,  com- 
ing forward,  he  gave  me  his  solemn  blessing.  I  was 
scarcely  ever  more  affected.     Such  was  the  effect  of 


324  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

his  manner  and  appearance,  that  it  altogether  overset 
me ;  and  I  burst  into  tears,  unable  to  restrain  my- 
self." * 

One  of  the  most  interesting  incidents  illustrating  the 
power  of  a  hymn,  that  we  have  met  with,  is  the  follow- 
ing. The  only  daughter  of  an  English  nobleman,  som.e 
years  ago,  although  brought  up  in  the  lap  of  luxury 
and  worldly  splendor,  was  led  by  a  series  of  circum- 
stances to  visit  a  Methodist  Church  in  London,  and 
shortly  afterwards  became  a  devoted  Christian.  She 
was  the  idol  of  her  father  ;  and  it  was  with  deep  regret 
that  he  noticed  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  her 
views  and  conduct.  He  placed  at  her  disposal  large 
sums  of  money,  hoping  to  induce  her  to  return  to  the 
gay  life  of  dissipation  and  pleasure  that  her  former 
associates  indulged.  After  failing  in  all  his  projects 
to  win  her  back  to  worldly  vanities,  he  determined  to 
introduce  her  into  company,  under  circumstances  that 
would  compel  her  to  join  in  the  amusements  of  the 
party,  or  give  high  offence.  It  was  arranged  that,  on 
a  festive  occasion,  several  young  ladies  should  each 
accompany  a  performance  on  the  piano-forte  with  a 
song.  The  liour  arrived,  the  party  assembled,  several 
had  performed  their  pieces ;  and  all  were  waiting 
with  eager  expectation  for  our  heroine.  With  wonder 
ful  serenity  she  took  her  seat  at  the  instrument,  ran 
her  fingers  over  its  keys,  and  commenced  playing, 
singing,  in  a  sweet  air,  the  words  of  Charles  Wes- 
ley,— 

No  room  for  mirth  or  trifling  here, 
For  worldly  hope,  or  worldly  fear, 
If  life  so  soon  is  gone  ; 

•  Life  of  Wilberforce. 


LATER    ENGLISH.  325 

If  now  the  Judge  is  at  the  door, 
And  all  mankind  must  stand  before 
The  inexorable  Throne. 

No  matter  which  my  thoughts  employ, 
A  moment's  misery  or  joy: 

But,  oh,  when  both  shall  end. 
Where  shall  I  find  my  destined  place  ? 
Shall  I  my  everlasting  days 

With  fiends  or  angels  spend  ? 

She  rose  from  her  seat :  the  whole  party  were  sub- 
dued ;  not  a  word  was  spoken.  Her  father  wept  aloud. 
One  by  one  the  visitors  left  the  house.  Soon  after- 
wards, both  father  and  daughter  rejoiced  together  with 
a  new  joy.  During  his  union  with  the  Church,  he  is 
said  to  have  contributed  to  benevolent  enterprises  a 
sum  equal  to  over  half  a  million  of  dollars. 

More  than  half  a  century  ago,  when  itinerant  Meth- 
odist ministers  fared  roughly,  there  occurred  in  Louis- 
iana a  little  incident  worth  noting,  to  show  the  good 
effect  a  hymn  may  sometimes  produce.  A  travelling 
minister  was  one  evening  reduced  to  the  very  verge  of 
starvation ;  he  had  spent  the  preceding  night  in  a 
swamp,  and  had  taken  no  food  for  thirty-six  hours, 
when  he  reached  a  plantation.  He  entered  the  house, 
and  asked  for  food  and  lodging.  The  mistress  of  the 
house,  a  widow,  with  several  daughters  and  negroes, 
refused  him.  He  stood  warming  himself  by  the  fire 
a  few  minutes,  and  began  singing  a  hymn,  com- 
mencing, — 

Peace,  my  soul,  thou  needst  not  fear : 

The  great  Provider  still  is  near. 

He  sang  the  whole  hymn ;  and,  when  he  looked  round, 
they  were  all  in  tears.  He  was  forthwith  invited  to 
stay  a  week  with  them. 


326  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

William  Williams  (1717-1791),  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
three,  was  ordained  deacon,  and  began  his  ministry  at 
Llanwrtyd,  and  afterward  he  became  an  itinerant 
Methodist  minister,  in  which  capacity  he  labored  for 
half  a  century.  For  the  variety  and  uniform  excel- 
lence of  his  hymns,  he  has  been  styled  the  "  Watts " 
of  Wales.     These  are  his  hymns  commencing, — 

O'er  the  gloomy  hills  of  darkness. 
Guide  me,  O  Thou  great  Jehovah ! 

The  former  is  especially  interesting,  as  being  a  noble 
missionary  hymn,  composed  before  the  founding  of 
the  modern  missionary  societies. 

John  Cennick,  whose  life  has  been  briefly  sketched 
by  Matthew  Wilks,  was  connected  with  the  Moravians, 
in  London ;  and  he  twice  visited  their  community  in 
Germany.  To  Cennick  we  are  indebted  for  two  of  the 
finest  hymns  ever  written,  —  "Rise,  my  soul,  and 
stretch  thy  wings,"  and  "Lo  !  He  comes,  with  clouds 
descending."  The  last-named  first  appeared  in  a 
"Collection  of  Sacred  Hymns,"  1752.  This  hymn  is 
undoubtedly  suggested  by  the  "  Dies  Irse."  In  some 
church  collections,  this  hymn  is  attributed  to  Thomas 
Olivers. 

Beddome's  Collection  of  Hymns  —  originally  writ- 
ten for  the  use  of  the  Baptist  Church  at  Bourton,  in 
Gloucestershire — comprises  some  which  have  become 
universal  favorites.  Among  the  number  might  be 
instanced  the  following :  "  Did  Christ  o'er  sinners 
weep?"  "Faith,  'tis  a  precious  grace,"  "Let  party 
names  no  more,"  and  "Witness,  ye  men  and  angels 
now." 

Robert   Hall   says,   in   his  "Introduction"  to  these 


LATER    ENGLISH.  327 

Hymns,  "The  man  of  taste  will  be  gratified  with  the 
beautiful  and  original  thoughts  which  many  of  them 
exhibit ;  while  the  experimental  Christian  will  often 
perceive  the  most  sweet  movements  of  his  soul  strik- 
ingly delineated,  and  sentiments  portrayed  which  will 
find  their  echo  in  every  heart."  The  esteemed  author 
devoted  the  whole  of  his  useful  life  to  the  church  at 
Bourton,  —  a  pastoral  service  of  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury.    He  was  born  in  1717,  and  died  1795. 

Samuel  Davies,  who  lived  from  1724  until  1761,  was 
an  American  by  birth.  He  was  licensed  to  preach,  in 
1745,  by  the  Presbytery  of  Newcastle,  Del.  After- 
wards, he  was  appointed  by  the  trustees  of  the  College 
of  New  Jersey  to  visit  England  ;  subsequently,  he  suc- 
ceeded Jonathan  Edwards  as  president  of  Princeton 
College.  He  wrote  a  hymn,  admirable  for  its  sim- 
plicity, force,  and  comprehensiveness,  —  "Great  God 
of  wonders  !  all  Thy  ways." 

Thomas  Haweis,  chaplain  to  the  Countess  of  Hun- 
tingdon (1734-1820),  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the 
London  Missionary  Society,  and  author  of  several  im- 
portant theological  works  :  he  wrote  also  some  favorite 
hymns,  as  "O  Thou  from  whom  all  goodness  flows," 
"Enthroned  on  high.  Almighty  Lord." 

Haweis  wrote  above  two  hundred  and  fifty  hymns ; 
and  in  his  preface  to  the  collection  he  complains  that, 
in  his  day,  "the  voice  of  joy  and  gladness  is  too  com- 
monly silent,  unless  in  that  shameful  mode  of  psalmody, 
now  almost  confined  to  the  wretched  solo  of  a  parish 
clerk,  or  to  a  few  persons  huddled  together  in  one  cor- 
ner of  the  church,  who  sing  to  the  praise  and  glory  of 
themselves,  for  the  entertainment,  or  oftener  for  the 
weariness,  of  the  rest  of  the  congregation,  —  an  ab- 


328  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

surdity  too  glaring  to  be  overlooked,  and  too  shocking 
to  be  ridiculous." 

Thomas  Olivers  (1725-1799)  was  of  humble  origin, 
but  ultimately  became  known  and  honored  as  "a  sweet 
singer  in  Israel."  He  was  deprived  of  both  his  parents 
when  he  was  but  four  years  old,  and  was  placed  under 
the  protection  of  a  distant  relative.  At  eighteen,  he 
was  apprenticed  to  a  shoemaker ;  but,  owing  to  his 
bad  conduct,  he  was  compelled  to  leave  the  neighbor- 
hood. At  Bristol,  where  he  had  gone  to  carry  on  his 
trade,  he  heard  Whitefield  preach,  and  became  a  Chris- 
tian. Subsequently,  he  met  with  Mr.  Wesley,  and 
joined  the  corps  of  itinerant  Methodist  preachers  in 
Cornwall.  In  his  various  journeys  on  horseback,  dur- 
ing twenty-five  years,  he  travelled  about  one  hundred 
thousand  miles  ;  often  meeting  with  opposition  and  vio- 
lence in  his  good  work. 

"  During  a  conference,  in  Wesley's  time,  Thomas 
Olivers,  one  of  the  preachers,  came  down  to  him,  and, 
unfolding  a  manuscript,  said,  'Look  at  this:  I  have 
rendered  it  from  the  Hebrew,  giving  it,  as  far  as  I 
could,  a  Christian  character ;  and  I  have  called  on 
Leoni,  the  Jew,  who  has  given  me  a  synagogue  mel- 
ody to  suit  it.  Here  is  the  tune,  and  it  is  to  be  called 
"Leoni."  1  read  the  composition,  and  it  was  that  well- 
known,  grand  imitation  of  ancient  Israel's  hymns:  — 

'  The  God  of  Abraham  praise, 

Who  reigns  enthroned  above  ; 
Ancient  of  everlasting  days, 
And  God  of  love.'  " 

The  entire  hymn  consists  of  twelve  stanzas ;  and 
Montgomery  sa3^s  of  it,  "  There  is  not  in  our  lan- 
guage a  lyric  of  more  majestic  style,  more  elevated 


LATER    ENGLISH.  329 

thought,  or  more  glorious  imagery  :  its  structure,  in- 
deed, is  unattractive  ;  but,  like  a  stately  pile  of  archi- 
tecture, severe  and  simple  in  design,  it  strikes  less  on 
the  first  view  than  after  deliberate  examination,  when 
its  proportions  become  more  graceful,  its  dimensions 
expand,  and  the  mind  itself  grows  greater  in  contem- 
plating it."  This  fine  hymn  is  said  to  have  had  great 
influence  upon  the  mind  of  Henry  Martyn,  when  con- 
templating his  important  missionary  career.  Olivers 
lived  to  a  good  old  age :  in  his  earlier  years,  he 
preached,  but  his  latter  were  devoted  to  authorship. 
It  is  remarkable,  that,  although  Olivers  and  his  asso- 
ciate, Wesley,  were  in  sweetest  harmony  with  their 
contemporary,  Toplady,  in  their  hymnic  utterances, 
yet  in  their  theology  they  were  bitter  opponents.  Their 
poetry,  who  would  let  die ;  their  polemics,  who  would 
care  to  retain?  It  is  pleasant,  however,  to  add  that 
they  were  personal  friends. 


EIGHTH     EVENING. 


LATER   ENGLISH. 

{Continued^ 


EIGHTH      EVENING. 


LATER  ENGLISH. 

{Conimtied.) 

TN  the  storied  and  picturesque  city  of  Oxford,  might 
-*-  have  been  seen,  about  a  century  and  a  half  since, 
a  young  man  paying  his  way,  as  servitor,  at  Pem- 
broke College.  He  shunned  his  classmates,  because 
they  were  inclined  to  "riotous  living."  He  had  heard 
of  the  young  men  there,  "who  lived  by  rule  and 
method,"  called  Methodists;  and,  for  more  than  a 
year,  he  yearned  to  be  acquainted  with  them ;  but 
a  sense  of  his  inferior  condition  kept  him  back.  At 
length  the  great  object  of  his  desires  was  effected. 
A  pauper  had  attempted  suicide ;  and  a  person  was 
sent  to  inform  Charles  Wesley,  that  he  might  visit 
him,  and  administer  spiritual  medicine.  The  mes- 
senger was  charged  not  to  say  who  sent  her :  but, 
contrary  to  these  orders,  she  told  his  name ;  and 
Charles  Wesley,  who  had  seen  him  frequently  walk- 
ing by  himself,  and  heard  something  of  his  character, 
invited  him  to  breakfast  the  next  morning.  An  intro- 
duction to  this  little  fellowship  soon  followed ;  and  he 
also,  like  them,  "began  to  live  by  rule,  and  pick  up 
the  very  fragments  of  his  time,  that  not  a  moment  of 
it  might  be  lost." 


334  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

This  young  man  was  George  Whitefield ;  and  thus 
has  the  graphic  pen  of  Wesley's  biographer  described 
his  first  introduction  to  that  little  society,  whose  mem- 
bers afterwards  stamped  their  influence  so  broadly  on 
that  and  subsequent  times. 

After  leaving  Oxford,  and  taking  deacon's  orders, 
he  began  to  preach  at  Bristol,  and  to  exhibit  "that 
impassioned  eloquence  which  moved  and  melted  both 
the  Old  World  and  the  New."  Above  the  average  in 
stature,  of  a  graceful  deportment,  a  musical  voice, 
to  these  natural  endowments  he  added  the  convic- 
tion of  the  grandeur  of  his  solemn  vocation  as  a  mes- 
senger of  God  to  men.  His  maxim  was  to  preach,  as 
Apelles  painted,  for  eternity  !  Whitefield  differed  from 
his  associate  Wesley,  as  to  some  minor  doctrinal  points  ; 
but  they  loved  each  other  with  true  brotherly  affec- 
tion, for  their  souls  glowed  with  the  warm  charities  of 
the  gospel.  After  he  returned  from  his  third  visit  to 
America,  he  was,  in  1749,  appointed  chaplain  to  Lady 
Huntingdon,  whose  mansion  in  Park  Street,  London, 
was  opened  for  Whitefield's  ministry.  Lords  Chester- 
field, Bolingbroke,  the  Marquis  of  Lothian,  and  others 
of  the  nobility,  attended  his  preaching,  —  some  to  profit, 
and  some  to  reject  and  scorn. 

The  spiritual  crusade  of  Whitefield,  Wesley,  Watts, 
Doddridge,  and  others  associated  with  the  Countess 
of  Huntington,  formed  an  important  era  in  the  his- 
tory of  Christianity  in  Great  Britain.  The  earnest 
preaching,  the  electric  appeals,  of  these  Home-mission- 
aries of  the  Cross,  kindled  anew  the  dying  faith  of  the 
churches,  and  made  converts  of  multitudes  who  had 
been  hitherto  either  indifferent  or  hostile  to  its  claims. 
Lady  Huntingdon's  wealth  and  position  naturally  gave 


LATER    ENGLISH.  335 

to  her  a  controlling  influence ;  for  her  fortune  of  one 
hundred  thousand  pounds  was,  like  her  life-service, 
devoted  to  the  good  cause.  Among  her  ladyship's 
intimate  friends  was  a  personage  small  of  stature, 
modest  in  bearing,  but  fluent  in  thought  and  speech : 
he  was  troubled  with  a  feeble  body,  and  was  a  great 
lover  of  solitude,  —  to  such  an  extent,  indeed,  that  he 
never  married.  He  has  taught  us  all  to  sing,  from 
the  nursery  ditties  of  our  infant  days,  to  the  aspirations 
of  Christian  manhood,  and  to  the  full  maturity  of  age. 
Need  we  introduce  this  remarkable  personage  by  name? 
Is  it  not  the  venerable  pastor  of  the  church  at  Stoke 
Newington,  —  Dr.  Watts?  He  was  born  in  the  storm- 
iest days  of  nonconformity  ;  and  we  find  him  nursed  in 
the  arms  of  his  sorrowing  mother,  on  a  stone  by  the 
prison-walls  which  confine  his  father,  a  "  godly  man 
and  a  deacon,"  suff'ering  persecution  for  conscience' 
sake. 

But  we  have  already  held  with  him  our  quiet  col- 
loquy. Closely  associated  with  the  names  of  Wesley 
and  Whitefield  is  that  of  Lady  Huntingdon,  at  whose 
house  the  first  Methodist  Conference  was  held,  in 
June,  1744.  The  celebrated  Romaine,  when  expelled 
from  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  was  invited  by 
the  countess  to  preach  at  her  house.  On  the  death 
of  the  earl,  in  1746,  she  had  the  entire  command  of 
her  fortune,  which  she  devoted  very  liberally  to  re- 
ligious purposes.  She  died  at  her  house  in  Moor- 
fields,  adjoining  the  chapel,  in  1791,  at  the  ripe  age 
of  eighty-four  years.  At  the  time  of  her  death,  there 
were  more  than  sixty  chapels  in  her  "connection." 
We  possess  several  fine  hymns  from  her  pen,  includ- 
ing the  following:  "Oh,  when   my  righteous  Judge 


336  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

shall  come  !  "  "  We  soon  shall  hear  the  midnight  cry,** 
and  "The  world  can  neither  give  nor  take." 

A  quaint  mixture  of  wit,  sense,  and  bluntness,  with 
real  piety,  was  John  Berridge,  whose  life,  although 
a  bachelor,  it  were  a  misnomer  to  call  lonely  ;  "  for 
it  was  as  stirring  as  a  hundred  miles'  riding,  with  ten 
or  twelve  sermons  a  week,  could  make  it,  and  that 
for  a  period  of  nearly  five-and-twenty  years.  At 
home,  his  table  was  ever  ready  for  his  hearers,  many 
of  whom  came  from  a  distance ;  his  stables  open  to 
their  horses ;  while  houses  and  barns,  in  every  direc- 
tion, were  rented  and  taken  care  of  for  the  lay-preachers 
employed  at  his  expense.  The  richness  and  orig- 
inality of  his  mind  made  him  an  especial  favorite ; 
while  his  sturdy  sticking  to  his  own  notions  of  duty 
never  gave  offence  to  those  who  understood  the  depth 
and  singleness  of  his  piety."  * 

As  a  specimen  of  his  earnest  style,  read  the  follow- 
ing extract  from  his  letter  of  condolence  to  Lady 
Huntingdon,  on  the  death  of  her  daughter:  — 

She  has  gone  to  pay  a  most  blessed  visit,  and  you  will  see  her 
again,  never  to  part  more.  Had  she  crossed  the  sea,  you  could 
have  borne  it ;  but  now  she  has  gone  to  heaven,  it  is  almost  intol- 
erable. Wonderful,  strange  love  is  this  !  .  .  .  I  cannot  soothe  you, 
and  I  must  not  flatter  you.  I  am  glad  the  dear  creature  has  gone 
to  heaven  before  you.  Lament,  if  you  please ;  but  glory,  glory, 
glory  be  to  God,  says 

John  Berridge. 

Daniel  Turner  (1710-1798),  a  Baptist  minister  at 
Abington,  England,  wrote  some  notable  hymns  ; 
among  them,  that  sometimes  attributed  to  Grigg, 
"Beyond  the  glittering  starry  skies."  As  we  have 
already  intimated.  Watts  and  Doddridge  often  used 

•  Knight's  Huntingdon,  &c 


LATER    ENGLISH.  337 

to  write  hymns  as  a  sequel  to  their  sermons.  This 
curious  custom  has  long  since  ceased,  however.  Other 
clerical  eccentricities  lingered  later,  with  Swift,  Syd- 
ney Smith,  and  Roland  Hill;  but  these  are  now  be- 
coming forgotten. 

There  is  a  story  told  of  a  certain  eccentric  clergy- 
man of  Cambridge,  England,  years  ago,  who,  when 
challenged  to  preach  against  intemperance,  is  said  to 
have  improvised  the  following  short  sermon,  under 
a  wayside  tree,  on  the  word  "  Malt."  He  commenced 
by  stating  that  he  had  chosen  a  short  text,  which  could 
not  be  divided  into  sentences,  there  being  none ;  nor 
into  words,  there  being  but  one.  He  therefore  divided 
it  into  letters ;  thus,  M  is  moral,  A  is  allegorical,  L  is 
literal,  and  T  is  theological.  His  exposition  ran  as 
follows  :  the  moral  is  to  teach  you  good  manners ; 
therefore,  M,  my  masters,  A,  all  of  you,  L,  leave  off,  T, 
tippling.  The  allegorical  is  when  one  thing  is  spoken 
of,  and  another  meant.  The  thing  spoken  of  is  malt, 
which  you  make,  M,  your  meat.  A,  your  apparel,  L, 
your  liberty,  and  T,  your  Trust.  The  literal  is,  accord- 
ing to  the  letters,  M,  much,  A,  ale,  L,  little,  T,  trust. 
The  theological  is,  according  to  the  effects  it  works  in 
some,  M,  murder;  in  others.  A,  adultery;  in  all,  L, 
looseness  of  life  ;  and,  in  many,  T,  treachery.  Rather 
a  roundabout  way  of  proving  that  "gin  is  a  snare," 
as  well  as  all  spirituous  drinks.  But  temperance  is 
one  of  the  Christian  virtues.  It  is  a  remarkable  fact 
that  the  burden  of  Biblical  instruction  is  against  the 
use  of  stimulating  drinks.  Although  St.  Paul's  advice 
to  take  a  little  wine  medicinally  is  often  urged,  few  are 
aware  how  many  instances  are  on  record  in  which 
wine  and  all  strong  drinks  are  prohibited  in  the  Bible. 

22 


338  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

When  the  Children  of  Israel  were  travel-worn  and 
thirsty,  Moses  smote  the  rock  Horeb  ;  and  water,  not 
wine,  rolled  in  living  streams  at  their  feet.  When  the 
drunken  king  spread  rich  viands  and  wine  before  Dan- 
iel, he  refused  to  drink  any  thing  save  water.  When 
Hagar  and  her  child  were  perishing  with  thirst,  an 
angel  directed  them  to  a  well  of  water  in  the  wilder- 
ness. When  the  Gideonites  were  chosen  to  go  out 
and  meet  the  hosts  of  Midian,  three  hundred  cold- 
water  drinkers  were  the  men  picked  for  that  special 
service.  Samson,  a  man  of  great  physical  strength, 
and  John  the  Baptist,  the  mightiest  born  of  woman, 
were  each  commanded  to  drink  neither  wine  nor  strong 
drink.     Now  turn  we  from  libations  to  long  sermons. 

Dr.  Isaac  Barrow  once  preached  so  long,  that  all 
his  congregation  dropped  off,  leaving  the  sexton  and 
himself  alone.  The  sexton,  finding  the  doctor  appar- 
ently no  nearer  a  conclusion,  is  reported  to  have  said 
to  him :  "  Sir,  here  are  the  keys ;  please  to  lock  up 
the  church,  when  you  get  through  your  discourse  ! " 
Long  sermons  are  the  bane  of  the  pulpit's  power ;  but 
then,  sometimes,  under  short  sermons,  some  people  will 
become  drowsy.  Prolixity  in  preaching  is  an  ancient 
heresy  of  the  priesthood.  As  if  conscious  of  this  weak- 
ness, the  Greek  and  Latin  Fathers  used  in  the  pulpit 
an  hour-glass,  whose  running  down  might  admonish 
them  when  to  wind  up.  George  Herbert  says  :  "The 
parson  exceeds  not  an  hour  in  preaching,  because  all 
ages  have  thought  that  a  competency."  Thus  much  on 
the  pulpit :  a  word  more  on  the  pew.  Swift,  taking  the 
misfortune  of  Eutychus  for  his  argument,  began  a  ser- 
mon with  :  "  I  have  chosen  these  words  with  design, 
if  possible,  to  disturb  some  part  in  this  audience  of 
half  an  hour's  sleep,  for  the  convenience  and  exercise 


LATER    ENGLISH. 


339 


thereof,  this  place  at  this  season  of  the  day  is  very 
much  celebrated."  Then  he  goes  on,  in  allusion  to 
Eutjchus  sleeping  in  the  window :  "  The  preachers 
now  in  the  world,  however  they  may  exceed  St.  Paul 
in  the  art  of  setting  men  to  sleep,  do  extremely  fall 
short  of  him  in  the  power  of  working  miracles ;  there- 
fore, hearers  are  become  more  cautious,  so  as  to  choose 
more  safe  and  convenient  stations  and  postures  for 
their  repose,  without  hazard  of  their  persons,  and 
upon  the  whole  matter  choose  rather  to  trust  their 
destruction  to  a  miracle  than  their  safety." 

The  Rev.  James  Bonnar,  of  Auchtermuchty,  of  the 
Relief  Kirk,  hit  upon  a  very  pleasant  means  of  rousing 
a  drowsy  congregation.  "It  was  a  very  warm  day, 
the  church  closely  packed ;  the  occasion,  the  Monday 
following  communion.  He  observed,  with  some  an- 
noyance, many  of  the  congregation  nodding  and  sleep- 
ing in  their  pews  whilst  he  was  preaching.  He  took 
his  measures  accordingly,  and  introduced  the  word 
'hyperbolical'  into  his  sermon;  but  he  paused,  and 
said :  'Now,  my  friends,  some  of  you  may  not  under- 
stand this  word  "  hyperbolical :"  I'll  explain  it.  Suppose 
that  I  were  to  say  that  this  congregation  were  all  asleep 
in  this  church  at  the  present  time,  I  would  be  speaking 
hyperbolically ;  because '  (looking  round)  '  I  don't 
believe  much  more  than  one-half  of  you  are  sleeping.' 
The  effect  was  instantaneous ;  and  those  who  were 
nodding  recovered  themselves,  and  nudged  their  sleep- 
ing neighbors,  and  the  preacher  went  on  as  if  nothing 
had  happened." 

In  Crabbe's  time,  it  seems  people  sometimes  slept  in 
church  ;  for  he  describes  the  effects  of  the  vehemence 
of  a  certain  preacher  thus  :  — 


340  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

He  such  sad  coil  with  words  of  vengeance  kept, 
That  our  best  sleepers  startled  as  they  slept ; 

Doubtless,  the  reader  has  noticed  the  name  of  Steele 
in  our  hymnology  :  we  have  a  few  things  to  mention 
respecting  it.  Anne  Steele  was  the  daughter  of  a  Bap- 
tist minister,  who,  in  1757,  had  the  pastoral  charge  of 
a  congregation,  meeting  in  the  village  of  Broughton, 
in  Hampshire,  on  the  spot  where  their  fathers  had  wor- 
shipped from  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth.*  The 
good  pastor  writes  in  his  diary  :  "i757'  Nov.  29.  This 
day,  Nanny  sent  a  part  of  her  composition  to  London, 
to  be  printed.  I  entreat  a  gracious  God,  who  enabled 
and  stirred  her  up  to  such  a  work,  to  direct  in  it,  and 
bless  it  for  the  good  and  comfort  of  many.  ...  I  pray 
God  to  make  it  useful,  and  keep  her  humble."  A 
quaint  and  beautiful  expression  of  a  Christian  parent's 
grateful  solicitude  and  joy.  The  benediction  invoked 
upon  the  collection  of  her  spiritual  songs  seems  to 
have  been  bountifully  bestowed.  Who  can  doubt  this, 
on  reading  that  noble  hymn?  — 

Jesus,  my  Lord,  in  Thy  dear  name  unite 

All  things  my  heart  calls  great  or  good  or  sweet ; 

Divinest  springs  of  wonder  and  delight, 

In  Thee,  Thou  fairest  often  thousand,  meet. 

Here  is  another  of  her  sweet  hymns  :  — 

Father,  whate'er  of  earthly  bliss  Thy  sovereign  will  denies, 
Accepted  at  Thy  throne  of  grace,  let  this  petition  rise : 
Give  me  a  calm,  a  thankful  heart,  from  every  murmur  free  ; 
The  blessings  of  Thy  grace  impart,  and  make  me  live  to  Thee ; 
Let  the  sweet  hope  that  I  am  Thine,  my  life  and  death  attend ; 
Thy  presence  through  my  journey  shine,  and  crown  my  journey's  end. 

•  There  is  an  incident  on  record,  relating  to  the  predecessor  of  Mr.  Steele,  his  uncle,  who 
was  so  popular  a  preacher,  that  the  parson  of  the  parish  reported,  at  the  episcopal  visitation, 
that  his  parochi.il  jirovii  ce  was  sadly  invaded  by  the  dissenter.  "  How  can  I  best  oppose 
him?"  was  his  query  to  Bishop  Burnett.  "Go  home,"  said  the  wise  diocesan,  "and  preach 
better  than  Henry  Steele,  and  the  people  will  return." 


LATER    ENGLISH.  34I 

These  are  the  soft,  plaintive  utterances  of  one  sorely- 
tried  in  this  earthly  life;  whose  songs,  from  out  the 
"furnace  of  affliction," 

"  Rose  like  an  exhalation,  with  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet." 

More  than  a  century  ago,  a  young  man  was  im- 
pressed into  the  British  navy.  His  mind  had  already 
been  poisoned  by  sceptical  reading  ;  and  the  influences 
which  met  him  on  board  a  man-o'-war  were  not  adapted 
to  counteract  those  false  views.  After  a  series  of  sins 
and  sufferings,  we  find  him  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  in 
the  employment  of  a  slave-dealer,  reduced  to  wants 
which  made  him  a  literal  representative  of  the  prodigal 
son.  He  was  a  very  outcast,  ready  to  perish.  Unex- 
pectedly rescued  from  this  degradation,  it  was  only  to 
encounter  the  imminent  danger  of  shipwreck.  During 
the  terrors  of  the  storm,  he  had  nearly  gone  overboard, 
when  a  friendly  hand  rescued  him  ;  and  shortly  after- 
wards finding,  in  the  ship's  cabin,  a  copy  of  "Thomas 
a  Kempis,"  his  conscience  became  awakened,  and,  like 
the  prodigal,  "  he  arose  and  came  to  his  Father."  This 
was  John  Newton.  The  name  of  John  Newton,  as  as- 
sociated with  that  of  Cowper,  the  poet,  suggests  to  us 
their  joint  production,  entitled  "  Olney  Hymns."  Cow- 
per's  portion  consisted  of  sixty-two,  and  Newton's  two 
hundred  and  eighty-six  hymns.  The  "  Olney  Collec- 
tion" was  published  in  1779,  before  Cowper  was  known 
as  a  poet.  Living  at  Mrs.  Unwin's  house,  which  was 
close  to  the  vicarage,  Cowper  exchanged  visits  almost 
daily  with  Newton ;  and  it  was  during  this  time, 
1 767-1 779,  that  the  Olney  hymns  were  prepared. 
It  was  not   long,   however,   after  Cowper  had  com- 


342  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

menced  his  labors,  before  he  was  visited  with  a  second 
attack  of  insanity,  which  compelled  him  to  desist  from 
his  work.  His  translations  from  the  mystic  poems  of 
Madame  Guyon  were  done  at  the  request  of  his  friend, 
Rev.  Mr.  Bull,  who  succeeded  Mr.  Newton  on  his 
departure  for  London,  his  native  place.  This  eminent 
servant  of  God  (to  quote  from  the  epitaph  he  wrote 
for  himself)  was  "once  an  infidel  and  libertine,  a  ser- 
vant of  slaves  in  Africa."  He  was  an  only  child,  and 
had  the  misfortune  to  lose  his  mother  in  his  seventh 
year ;  a  circumstance  that  at  once  became  a  bond  of 
sympathy  between  these  remarkable  men.  Newton's 
mother  trained  up  her  son  carefully,  "  having  it  in  her 
heart "  that  he  would  be  one  day  engaged  in  the  Chris- 
tian ministry,  —  a  woi-k  to  which  she  had  devoted  him. 
Young  Newton's  father  and  stepmother  did  not  carry 
on  this  good  work,  but  he  was  "much  left  to  himself, 
to  mingle  with  idle  and  wicked  boys,  and  soon  learned 
their  ways." 

After  some  years  of  seafaring  life,  and  many  rough 
adventures,  he  was  shipwrecked  in  a  terrible  storm,  as 
already  intimated.  "  The  ship  outrode  the  storm,  and  the 
awakened  sinner  was  saved  to  serve  God  in  the  world." 
In  the  year  1764,  when  in  his  thirty-ninth  year,  he  en- 
tered upon  a  regular  ministry,  having  been,  by  the 
Earl  of  Dartmouth,  presented  to  the  vicarage  of  Olney. 
His  prose  writings  are  much  esteemed  for  their  experi- 
mental and  evangelical  piety;  and  his  "Narrative"  is 
especially  interesting,  as  a  minute  "record  of  a  series 
of  most  remarkable  special  providences  by  which  his 
life  was  spared,  just  when  it  seemed  about  to  be  taken, 
and  by  which  his  course  was  diverted  into  the  path  of 
safety,  just  when  its  persistency  in  the  downward  way 


LATER    ENGLISH.  343 

seemed  inevitable.  At  the  venerable  age  of  eighty- 
two,  Newton  "laid  down  his  life  and  labor  together,  and 
fell  asleep  in  Jesus."  It  is  scarcely  requisite  to  indicate 
even  the  best  of  his  numerous  lyrics.  The  most  popular 
of  his  hymns  include  the  following  :  "  How  sweet  the 
name  of  Jesus  sounds,"  "Day  of  •judgment,  day  of 
wonders." 

One  of  the  most  admirable  of  Newton's  hymns  is 
that  on  the  name  of  Jesus :  some  of  its  stanzas,  espe- 
cially the  fifth,  possess  the  terseness  and  vigor  of  the 
old  Latin  hymns. 

Jesus  !  my  Shepherd,  Husband,  Friend, 

My  Prophet,  Priest,  and  King, 
My  Lord,  my  Life,  my  Way,  my  End, 

Accept  the  praise  I  bring. 

Weak  is  the  effort  of  my  heart. 

And  cold  my  warmest  thought ; 
But  when  I  see  Thee  as  Thou  art, 

I'll  praise  Thee  as  I  ought. 

Till  then  I  would  Thy  love  proclaim 

With  every  fleeting  breath ; 
And  may  the  music  of  Thy  name 

Refresh  my  soul  in  death. 

There  was  a  stricken  deer,  who  had  long  been 
panting  for  the  water-brooks,  but  he  had  yet  found 
no  comfort;  till  one  day,  listlessly  taking  up  the  New 
Testament,  he  opened  it  at  the  words,  "¥/hom  God 
hath  set  forth  to  be  a  propitiation,  through  faith  in  His 
blood,"  &c.  ;  and  peace  flowed  into  his  soul  like  a 
river.  That  "stricken  deer,"  need  we  add,  was  Wil- 
liam Cowper. 

Undoubtedly,  the  most  beautiful  of  Cowper's  minor 
poems  is  that  on  his  Mother's  Picture.  It  was  Cow- 
per's misfortune  to  lose  his  mother  before  he  was  six 


344  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

years  of  age.  A  picture  of  her  was  sent  to  him  when 
he  was  nearly  sixty.  At  the  sight  of  it,  there  started 
up  images  and  recollections  and  feelings,  which  had 
slept  for  more  than  half  a  century.  Time  and  forget- 
fulness  were  baffled  by  a  sister-art ;  and  the  work  was 
completed  by  Poetry,  in  as  touching  lines  as  ever 
recorded  the  movements  of  a  poet's  memory  into  the 
shadowy  regions  of  childhood. 

Oh,  that  those  lips  had  language  !     Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine  :  thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see,  — 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me. 

Cowper's  deep  affection  for  his  mother  lasted  with 
him  through  life.  On  receipt  of  her  likeness,  he  wrote 
to  Lady  Hesketh,  "I  had  rather  possess  my  mother's 
picture  than  the  richest  jewel  in  the  British  crown  ;  for 
I  loved  her  with  an  affection  that  her  death,  fifty  years 
since,  has  not  in  the  least  abated." 

Poor,  melancholy  Cowper  was  not  of  choice  a  bach- 
elor :  his  projected  union  with  his  cousin  was  inter- 
dicted by  the  father  of  his  choice,  Theodora  Jane, 
second  daughter  of  Ashley  Cowper.  As  the  attach- 
ment was  mutual,  they  each  suffered  deeply  this  dis- 
appointment of  their  wishes.  It  is  supposed  to  have 
aggravated  his  disease. 

Well  has  it  been  said,  that,  "when  bodily  darkness 
fell  on  the  footsteps  of  Milton,  he  imagined  it  the  over- 
shadowing of  heavenly  wings ;  and  we  might  ascribe 
to  a  like  cause  the  spiritual  darkness  of  poor  Cowper's 
days."  The  gloomy  thought  that  had  taken  possession 
of  him  was  never  relinquished ;  but  often  it  seemed  to 
fade  awa}'^  into  the  unreal  wretchedness  of  a  distress- 
ing dream.     There  is  great  interest,  too,  in  tracing 


LATER    ENGLISH.  345 

how  his  imagination  extracted  melody  from  his  mad- 
ness,—  the  evil  spirit  that  troubled  him  charmed  to 
rest  by  the  harpings  of  his  Muse.  It  did  not  please 
Heaven  to  unweave  the  tangled  meshes  of  poor  Cow- 
per's  brain.  The  dark  delusion  of  despair  hung  over 
his  mind  to  the  very  verge  of  his  long  life  of  just  three- 
score years  and  ten."  *  His  last  original  piece,  "The 
Castaway,"  is,  indeed,  under  all  the  circumstances, 
one  of  the  most  affecting  ever  composed.  He  had 
been  reading,  in  "Anson's  Voyages,"  an  account  of  a 
man  lost  overboard  in  a  gale.  That  appalling  casualty, 
which  often  consigns  the  sailor  to  a  helpless  fate,  is 
told  in  vivid  stanzas,  closing  with  the  saddest  possible 
moralizing :  — 

No  poet  wept  him  ;  but  the  page  of  narrative  sincere, 

That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age,  is  wet  with  Anson's  tear ; 

And  tears,  by  bards  or  heroes  shed. 

Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 
I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream  descanting  on  his  fate, 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme  a  more  enduring  date  ; 

But  misery  still  delights  to'  trace 

Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 
No  voice  Divine  the  stcrm  allayed,  no  light  propitious  shone, 
When,  snatched  from  all  effectual  aid,  we  perished  each  alone ; 

But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea, 

And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he  ! 

Very  many  of  Cowper's  hymns,  like  passages  in 
his  longer  poems,  have  become  "household  words." 
Some  of  his  most  remarkable  hymns  have  a  his- 
tory. For  example:  Cowper  "thought  it  was  the 
Divine  will "  that  he  should  go  to  a  particular  part  of 
the  river  Ouse,  and  drown  himself;  but  the  driver  of 
the  vehicle,  missing  his  way,  diverted  him  from  his 

*  Henry  Reed. 


34^  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

purpose ;  and  thereupon  were  composed  those  memor- 
able lines,  "God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way," —  com- 
posed, as  Montgomery  remarks,  "under  circumstances 
of  awful  interest,  —  in  the  twilight  of  departing  rea- 
son." It  was  the  last  hymn  he  compiled  for  the 
"Olney  Collection."  Among  the  hymns  that  will  ever 
live  are  those  pathetic  utterances  of  his  so  expressive 
of  the  conflicts  of  Christian  Hfe ;  as,  "Oh  for  a  closer 
walk  with  God  !  "  and  "  O  Lord,  my  best  desires  fulfil ! " 
The  much-admired  hymn,  "  To  Jesus,  the  crown  of  my 
hope,"  was,  it  is  believed,  the  last  hymn  Cowper  wrote. 

It  adds  no  little  to  the  interest  with  which  we  recite 
some  of  Cowper's  plaintive  melodies,  when  we  remem- 
ber the  circumstances  that  gave  them  birth.  One  of 
his  thanksgiving  hymns  —  "How  blest  Thy  creature 
is,  O  God  ! "  —  was  written,  we  are  informed  by  his 
biographer,  immediately  upon  his  recovery  from  his 
second  attack  of  mental  derangement ;  and  the  second 
strain,  in  wh^:h  he  poured  forth  the  grateful  feelings 
of  his  heart,  was  that -beginning,  "Far  from  the 
world,  O  Lord  !  I  flee." 

Cowper  —  the  great  Christian  poet  of  England,  and, 
as  Willmott  justly  remarks,  pre-eminently  the  poet  of 
the  affections,  above  any  writer  in  our  language  — 
has  enriched  sacred  literature  by  so  many  exquisite 
bursts  of  poetic  inspiration,  that  it  is  no  easy  task  to 
determine  which  are  the  best.  We  must  be  allowed 
simply  to  follow  our  vagrant  fancy  in  the  selection, 
hoping  it  will  please  :  — 

The  patli  of  sorrow,  and  that  patli  alone, 
Leads  to  the  land  where  sorrow  is  unknown ! 
No  traveller  e'er  reached  that  blest  abode, 
Who  found  not  thorns  and  briers  in  his  road. 


LATER    ENGLISH.  347 

Worldlings  may  dance  along  the  flowery  plain, 

Cheered,  as  they  go,  by  many  a  sprightly  strain  ; 

Where  nature  has  her  mossy  velvet  spread, 

With  unshod  feet,  they  yet  securely  tread  ; 

Admonished,  scorn  the  caution  and  the  friend, 

Bent  on  all  pleasure,  heedless  of  its  end. 

But  He,  who  knew  what  human  hearts  would  prove, 

How  slow  to  learn  the  dictates  of  His  love, 

That,  hard  by  nature,  and  of  stubborn  will, 

A  life  of  ease  would  make  them  harder  still, 

In  pity  to  the  souls  His  grace  designed 

To  rescue  from  the  ruins  of  mankind, 

Called  for  a  cloud  to  darken  all  their  years, 

And  said,  "  Go  spend  them  in  the  vale  of  tears." 


The  Soul,  reposing  on  assured  behef. 
Feels  herself  happy  amidst  all  her  grief; 
Forgets  her  labors,  as  she  toils  along, 
Weeps  tears  of  joys,  and  bursts  into  a  song. 

Beattie  (1735-1803),  although  of  humble  origin,  yet, 
by  his  industry  and  the  sterling  Christian  elements  of 
his  character,  attained  to  the  professorship  of  moral 
philosophy  in  Marischal  -College,  Aberdeen,  when 
only  in  his  twenty-sixth  year.  He  is  best  known  by 
his  "Minstrel,"  a  poem  of  great  gracefulness  of  ima- 
gery and  beauty  of  diction.  After  a  life  of  Christian 
usefulness,  the  poet  and  philosopher  died,  it  is  said, 
broken-hearted,  under  the  severe  pressure  of  domestic 
afflictions.  Here  are  three  fine  stanzas  from  his  "  Her- 
mit." Alluding  to  the  return  of  spring  after  the  deso- 
lations of  winter,  the  poet  thus  points  us  to  the  light 
of  Immortality :  — 

'Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more  ; 
I  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for  you ; 
For  morn  is  approaching,  your  charms  to  restore. 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance  and  glittering  with  dew. 


348  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn  ; 
Kind  nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save, 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn  ! 
Oh,  when  shall  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave  ! 

'Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science  betrayed,  — 

That  leads,  to  bewilder  ;  and  dazzles,  to  blind, — 

My  thoughts  wont  to  roam,  from  shade  onward  to  shade, 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 

"Oh,  pity,  great  Father  of  Light !  "  then  I  cried, 

"Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander  from  Thee; 

Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride  : 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  Thou  only  canst  free." 

And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away, 

No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn, 

So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint,  and  astray, 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 

See  Truth,  Love,  and  Mercy  in  triumph  descending, 

And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  first  bloom ! 

On  the  cold  cheek  of  Death  smiles  and  roses  are  blending, 

And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb. 

Here  is  one  fine  descriptive  stanza  from  his  "  Min- 
strel:"— 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ? 

The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain-side ; 

The  lowing  herd  ;  the  sheepfold's  simple  bell ; 

The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 

In  the  lone  valley  ;  echoing  far  and  wide 

The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above ; 

The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide  ; 

The  hum  of  bees  ;  the  linnet's  lay  of  love  ; 

And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

His  description  of  a  morning  landscape  is  much 
admired;  especially  this  famous  stanza,  which  was 
Dr.  Chalmers's  great  favorite  : — 

Oh,  how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 
Of  charms,  which  Nature  to  her  votary  yields  ! 

The  warbling  woodland,  the  resounding  shore, 
The  pomp  of  groves,  the  garniture  of  fields ; 


LATER    ENGLISH.  349 

All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds, 
And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even,— 

All  that  the  mountain's  sheltering  bosom  shields, 
And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  heaven,  — 
Oh,  how  canst  thou  renounce,  and  hope  to  be  forgiven  ? 

That  soul-stirring  lyric,  by  Robinson,  of  Cambridge, 
England,  — 

Come,  Thou  Fount  of  every  blessing, 
Tune  my  heart  to  sing  Thy  grace,  — 

has  a  sad  history.  Its  author — of  whom  Robert 
Hall  remarked,  that  he  "  could  say  what  he  pleased, 
when  he  pleased,  and  how  he  pleased"  —  was  pos- 
sessed of  versatile  and  popular  talents  ;  but  he  became 
the  victim  of  a  love  of  change  and  eccentricity.  By 
turns,  he  was  Calvinistic,  Methodist,  Independent, 
Baptist,  and  Socinian. 

In  our  church-books  may  be  found  some  hymns  by 
Blacklock,  a  minister  of  the  Church  of  Scotland,  who 
lived  during  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
He  lost  his  sight  in  early  life ;  but  such  was  his  facil- 
ity in  composition,  that  he  is  said  to  have  dictated  his 
sermons  and  hymns  as  fast  as  they  could  be  written. 
One  of  his  hymns  commences,  "Come,  O  my  soul! 
in  sacred  lays."  The  familiar  hymn  beginning,  "O 
Thou,  my  soul !  forget  no  more,"  acquires  especial 
interest  from  the  fact  that  it  is  a  translation  of  the 
Christian  hymn  written  by  a  Hindoo,  —  Khrishna  Pal, 
at  Serampore. 

Thomas  Green,  of  Ware,  one  of  our  hymn-writers, 
composed,  in  1774,  when  only  ten  years  of  age,  the 
hymn  commencing,  "Jesus,  and  can  it  ever  be?"  As 
a  marvel  of  precocious  talent,  it  takes  its  place  along 


350  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS- 

with  Milton's  psalm  ("  Let  us  with  a  gladsome  mind," 
&c.)  written  at  the  age  of  fifteen. 

Amid  the  rich  slopes  and  hills  of  Devonshire,  in  a 
sequestered  hamlet,  stands  the  quiet  parish-church  of 
Broad  Hembury  ;  within  whose  walls,  on  the  Sabbath- 
days  of  a  century  ago,  might  have  been  seen  the 
vicar  officiating  at  the  altar  of  worship,  —  fervently 
leading  his  rustic  audience  in  the  service  of  homily, 
praise,  and  prayer.  The  preacher  was  Augustus 
Toplady,  who  is  described  as  having  an  "ethereal 
countenance,  and  light,  immortal  form.  His  voice 
was  music.  His  vivacity  would  have  caught  the  lis- 
tener's eye  ;  and  his  soul-filled  looks  and  movements 
would  have  interpreted  his  language,  had  there  not 
been  such  commanding  solemnity  in  his  tones  as  made 
apathy  impossible,  and  such  simplicity  in  his  words 
that  to  hear  was  to  understand.  From  easy  explana- 
tions, he  advanced  to  rapid  and  conclusive  arguments, 
and  warmed  into  importunate  exhortations,  till  con- 
science began  to  burn,  and  feelings  to  take  fire  from 
his  own  kindled  spirit ;  and  himself  and  his  hearers 
were  together  drowned  in  sympathetic  tears."  He 
entered  upon  his  pastoral  duties  in  1768,  and  it  was  in 
the  rural  retreat  of  Broad  Hembury  that  most  of  his 
soul-stirring  hymns  were  composed. 

Toplady,  when  a  lad  of  sixteen,  and  on  a  visit  to 
Ireland;  had  strolled  into  a  barn,  where  an  illiterate 
la3'-man  was  preaching,  —  but  preaching  reconcilia- 
tion to  God  through  the  death  of  His  Son.  The  homely 
sermon  took  effect ;  and,  from  that  hour,  the  gospel 
guided  all  the  powers  of  his  brilliant  and  active 
mind.  Toplady  became  very  learned ;  and  at  the 
early  age  of  thirty-eight  years  he  died,  —  more  widely 


LATER    ENGLISH. 


351 


read  in  Fathers  and  Reformers  than  most  academic 
dignitaries  can  boast  when  their  heads  are  hoary. 
His  splendid  and  expressive  hymns,  a  rich  embodi- 
ment of  religious  experience,  are  his  imperishable 
memorial.  During  his  last  illness,  he  seemed  to  be 
in  the  very  vestibule  of  glory.  To  a  friend's  inquiry, 
he  replied,  with  sparkling  eye,  "I  cannot  tell  the  com- 
forts I  feel  in  my  soul :  they  are  past  expression.  The 
consolations  of  God  are  so  abvmdant,  that  he  leaves 
me  nothing  to  pray  for  :  my  prayers  are  all  converted 
into  praise.     I  enjoy  a  heaven  already  in  my  soul." 

This  eminent  Christian  poet  and  minister  has  left 
us,  not  only  many  sweet  songs  of  Zion,  but  a  beauti- 
ful moral  lesson  by  his  example, — both  in  his  life 
and  his  death.  When  near  his  departure  from 
earthly  scenes,  on  being  told  that  his  pulse  was  becom- 
ing weaker  and  weaker,  he  replied :  "  Why,  that  is  a 
good  sign  that  my  death  is  fast  approaching ;  and, 
blessed  be  God,  I  can  add,  that  my  heart  beats,  every 
day,  stronger  and  stronger  for  glory."  And,  after 
many  other  beautiful  Christian  words,  when  close  to 
his  end,  bursting  into  tears  of  joy,  as  he  said,  "It  will 
not  be  long  before  God  takes  me ;  for  no  mortal  man 
can  live  after  the  glories  which  God  has  manifested 
to  my  soul."  Thus  he  died,  in  the  thirty-eighth  year 
of  his  age.  How  short  a  life,  and  yet  how  richly 
freighted  with  blessing  to  the  world  ! 

"Toplady,"  remarks  Montgomery,  "  evidently  kin- 
dled his  poetic  torch  at  that  of  his  contemporary,  Charles 
Wesley.  Like  Bruce,  Kirke  White,  and  McCheyne, 
Toplady  was  early  called  to  join  the  heavenly  choirs ; 
but  he  has  left  us  the  inheritance  of  his  Muse,  in  some 
imperishable  sacred  lyrics."     We  scarcely  need  indi- 


352      EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  TOETS. 

cate  them  :  they  are  famihar  as  the  name  of  their 
author,  —  nay,  more  so;  for  example,  those  almost 
peerless  hymns  beginning,  "Deathless  principle,  arise," 
"Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me,"  who  will  forget? 

This  last-named  hymn,  so  justly  prized  by  the 
Christian  Church,  was  written  in  1776,  entitled  "A 
Living  and  Dying  Prayer  for  the  holiest  Believer  in 
the  world."  These  expressive  stanzas  gave  conso- 
lation to  the  late  lamented  Prince  Consort,  in  his 
dying  hour ;  and  in  how  many  unrecorded  instances 
they  have  ministered  to  the  spiritual  comfort  of 
others,  living  and  dying,  is  known  only  to  the  Om- 
niscient. "  Dr.  Pomeroy  relates  that  a  few  years  ago, 
when  in  an  Arminian  Church,  at  Constantinople,  the 
people  were  singing,  the  language  of  their  hymn  was 
foreign ;  but  it  was  evident  that  the  singers  were  in 
earnest,  and  that  there  was  deep  feeling  in  the  words 
of  their  song.  The  music  was  a  simple  melody  :  all 
sang  with  closed  eyes ;  but,  as  the  strain  continued, 
tears  were  starting  and  trickling  down  many,  many  a 
cheek.  Dr.  Pomeroy  would  fain  have  joined  in  the 
plaintive,  tender,  yet  glowing  hymn."*  What  were 
they  singing?  An  Arabic  version  of  "  Rock  of  Ages, 
cleft  for  me  !  " 

This  hymn  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  offspring 
of  one  of  those  seasons  of  depression,  which  seem, 
from  the  revelations  of  his  diary,  to  have  marked  the 
character  of  his  religious  life. 

Mr.  Gladstone  has  made  a  Latin  translation  of  this 
great  hymn ;  it  may  be  found  in  Schaff's  "  Christ  in 
Song,"  —  a  rich  collection  of  our  best  sacred  poetry. 
All  critics  regard  Toplady's  grand  1)  ric  poem,  "  Death- 

•  Christophers. 


LATER    ENGLISH. 


353 


less  principle,  arise  ! "  as  worthy  of  the  high  praise 
Lady  Huntingdon  bestowed  upon  it,  when  it  was  first 
sent  to  her  by  the  authoi , 

Mrs.  Barbauld,  who  lived  from  1743  till  1825,  issued 
her  first  lyrics  during  her  residence  with  her  father, 
Dr.  Aiken,  in  a  Dissenting  Academy,  at  Warrington. 
She  subsequently  became  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Barbauld,  a  French  Protestant  minister;  when  she 
wrote  "  Early  Lessons  for  Children,"  "  Hymns  in 
Prose,"  and  other  pieces. 

Mrs.  Barbauld's  poetry  included  among  its  admirers 
Charles  James  Fox ;  though  not  of  the  highest  order, 
her  versification  is  graceful,  musical,  and  infused  with 
religious  fervor.  Her  "  Address  to  the  Deity  "  is  one 
of  her  fine  poems  ;  here  are  the  opening  lines  :  — 

I  read  God's  awful  name  emblazoned  high, 
With  golden  letters  on  the  illumined  sky ; 
Nor  less  the  mystic  characters  I  see, 
Wrought  in  each  flower,  inscribed  on  every  tree ; 
In  every  leaf  that  trembles  to  the  breeze 
I  hear  the  voice  of  God  among  the  trees. 

The  closing  lines  have  the  solemn  cadence  of  the 
tolling  bell :  — 

And  when  the  last,  the  closing  hour  draws  nigh, 
And  earth  recedes  before  my  swimming  eye,  — 
When  trembling  on  the  doubtful  verge  of  fate 
I  stand,  and  stretch  my  view  to  either  state,  — 
Teach  me  to  quit  this  transitory  scene, 
With  resignation  and  a  look  serene  ; 
Teach  me  to  fix  my  ardent  hopes  on  high, 
And  having  lived  to  Thee,  in  Thee  to  die  ! 

What  heart  does  not  respond  to  this  beautiful 
prayer? — 

23 


354  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

If  friendless,  in  a  vale  of  tears  I  stray, 
Where  briers  wound,  and  thorns  perplex  my  way, 
Still  let  my  steady  soul  Thy  goodness  see, 
And,  with  strong  confidence,  lay  hold  on  Thee  : 
With  equal  eye,  my  various  lot  receive, 
Resigned  to  die,  or  resolute  to  live  ; 
Prepared  to  kiss  the  sceptre,  or  the  rod, 
While  God  is  seen  in  all,  and  all  in  God. 

Her  beautiful  lines  on  the  death  of  the  virtuous  were 
singularly  applicable  to  her  own  tranquil  death  :  — 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  Christians  die, 

When  holy  souls  retire  to  rest ; 
How  mildly  beams  the  closing  eye  ! 

How  gently  heaves  the  expiring  breast ! 

So  fades  a  summer  cloud  away  ; 

So  sinks  the  gale  when  storms  are  o'er ; 
So  gently  shuts  the  eye  of  day ; 

So  dies  a  wave  along  the  shore. 

Triumphant  smiles  the  victor's  brow. 
Fanned  by  some  guardian  angel's  wing ; 

O  Grave  !  where  is  thy  victory  now  ? 
And  where,  insidious  Death,  thy  sting  ? 

Both  Wordsworth  and  Rogers  much  admired  this 
stanza  in  her  poem  on  Life  :  — 

Life  !  we've  been  long  together. 
Through  pleasant,  and  through  cloudy  weather ; 
'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear,  — 
Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear : 

Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning. 
Choose  thine  own  time. 
Say  not  "  Good-night,"  but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  "  Good-morning." 

The  excellent  Hannah  INIore,  so  well  known  by  her 
multifarious  writings,  —  educational,  moral,  and  re- 


LATER    ENGLISH.  355 

ligious,  —  left  at  her  death  ten  thousand  pounds  in 
legacies  to  charitable  and  religious  institutions,  not  to 
mention  her  long  continued  benefactions  while  living. 
Although  she  was  never  married,  she  has  left  some 
admirable  counsel  for  those  who  are ;  and  to  all  such 
the  lines  especially  are  commended. 

The  angry  word  suppressed,  the  taunting  thought ; 
Subduing  and  subdued,  the  petty  strife 
Which  clouds  the  color  of  domestic  Hfe  ; 
The  sober  comfort,  all  the  peace  which  springs 
From  the  large  aggregate  of  little  things, — 
On  these  small  cares  of  daughter,  wife  or  friend, 
The  almost  sacred  joys  of  home  depend. 

Here  are  two  more  extracts  from  her  pen :  — 

Here,  bliss  is  short,  imperfect,  insecure  ; 

But  total,  absolute,  and  perfect  tJiere. 

Here,  time's  a  moment,  short  our  happiest  state  ; 

There,  infinite  duration  is  our  date. 

Here,  Satan  tempts,  and  troubles  e'en  the  best ; 

There,  Satan's  power  extends  not  to  the  blest. 

In  a  weak  simple  body,  here  I  dwell ; 

But  there  I  drop  this  frail  and  sickly  shell. 

Here,  my  best  thoughts  are  stained  with  guilt  and  fear; 

But  love  and  pardon  shall  be  perfect  there. 

Here,  my  best  duties  are  defiled  with  sin  ; 

There,  all  is  ease  without  and  peace  within. 

Here,  feeble  faith  supplies  my  only  light ; 

There,  faith  and  hope  are  swallowed  up  in  sight. 

Here,  love  of  self  my  fairest  works  destroys  ; 

The7-e,  love  of  God  shall  perfect  all  my  joys. 

Here,  things,  as  in  a  glass,  are  darkly  shown ; 

There,  I  shall  know  as  clearly  as  I'm  known. 

Frail  are  the  fairest  flowers  which  bloom  below; 

There,  freshest  palms  on  roots  immortal  grow. 

Here,  wants  and  cares  perplex  my  anxious  mind  ; 

Rut  spirits  there  a  calm  fruition  find. 


35^  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

The  soul  on  earth  is  an  immortal  guest, 

Condemned  to  starve  at  an  unreal  feast : 

A  spark,  which  upwards  tends  by  Nature's  force ; 

A  stream,  diverted  from  its  parent  source  ; 

A  drop,  dissevered  from  the  boundless  sea ; 

A  moment,  parted  from  eternity  ; 

A  pilgrim,  panting  for  the  rest  to  come  ; 

An  exile,  anxious  for  his  native  home. 

Among  the  more  distinguished  names  of  the  Baptist 
denomination,  that  of  Dr.  Ryland  holds  an  honored 
place.  He  was  associated  with  Carey,  Fuller,  Sut- 
cliffe,  and  others,  in  organizing  the  Baptist  Missionary 
Society,  at  Kettering,  in  1792.  Two  years  afterwards, 
he  was  appointed  to  the  presidency  of  the  Baptist  Col- 
lege, Bristol,  and  the  pastorate  at  Broadmead  Chapel ; 
which  duties  he  continued  to  discharge  until  his  death, 
in  1825.  The  event  was  signalized  by  the  high  eulo- 
gium  passed  upon  his  character  by  the  two  most  cele- 
brated men  in  the  Baptist  communion  of  their  time,  — 
John  Foster  and  Robert  Hall.  Ryland's  hymns  are 
not,  as  a  rule,  remarkable  for  poetic  fire  or  finish ;  the 
best  known,  and  perhaps  deservedly  so,  is,  "Sovereign 
Ruler  of  the  skies,"  which  consists  of  nine  stanzas  ;  and 
also  "  O  Lord  !  I  would  delight  in  Thee  !  "  of  which  he 
says,  "  I  recollect  deeper  feelings  of  mind  in  composing 
this  hymn,  than  perhaps  I  ever  felt  in  making  any 
other." 

The  celebrated  Dr.  Dwight,  of  Yale  College,  came 
of  a  noble  stock,  his  excellent  mother  having  been  a 
daughter  of  Jonathan  Edwards.  In  1771,  he  entered 
upon  his  duties  as  tutor  in  Yale  College;  six  years 
later  he  married,  and,  in  1783,  he  became  the  pastor 
of  the  church  at  Greenfield,  Conn.,  and  also  conducted 
an  academy  with  great  success.     Besides  many  works 


LATER    ENGLISH.  357 

in  prose,  Dr.  D wight  wrote  some  hymns  for  the  Pres- 
byterian hymn-book ;  among  them  the  well-known 
lines,  "I  love  Thy  kingdom.  Lord." 

Sometimes,  a  verse  of  a  hymn  possesses  a  talismanic 
charm,  and  acts  as  a  spell  to  recall  the  past.  An  affect- 
ing illustration  of  this  is  on  record,  of  an  incident  which 
occurred  during  the  war  in  Canada,  more  than  a  cen- 
tury ago.  The  Indians,  then  allies  with  the  French, 
made  frequent  hostile  incursions  ;  and,  on  one  occasion, 
they  made  a  descent  upon  the  town  of  Carlisle,  Penn., 
where  a  poor  German  family  lived.  Here  the  savages 
instantly  killed  the  father  and  son.  The  mother  was  for- 
tunately absent  at  the  time  ;  but  they  took  two  little  girls 
into  cruel  captivity.  After  many  years,  one  of  these, 
surviving  the  hardships  of  her  fate,  together  with  about 
four  hundred  other  poor  captives,  was  released;  at  the 
instance  of  the  English  officer,  Bouquet,  who  had 
achieved  a  victory  over  the  savages.  These  poor  creat- 
ures were  placed  in  a  line,  and  the  mothers  and  friends 
of  the  town  and  its  suburbs  were  invited  to  the  inspection, 
in  order  that  the  liberated  captives  might  be  identified 
and  taken  home.  Among  the  visitors  was  the  mother 
of  the  two  little  captive  girls  ;  but  bitter  was  her  disap- 
pointment when  she  failed  to  discover  her  lost  children. 
On  the  colonel's  inquiring  whether  she  could  not  re- 
member something  by  which  they  might  recognize 
her,  she  replied,  that  she  used  to  sing  to  them  a  hymn 
.beginning,  — 

Alone,  yet  not  alone  am  I, 

Though  in  this  solitude  so  drear ; 

I  feel  my  Saviour  always  nigh, 

He  comes  the  weary  hours  to  cheer. 

I  am  with  Him,  and  He  with  me  ; 

Even  here,  alone  I  cannot  be. 


358  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

She  began  to  sing  the  hymn ;  but  scarcely  had  she 
sung  the  first  two  lines,  when  her  lost  one  came  rushing 
from  the  crowd  to  her  arms,  and  joined  in  singing  the 
charmed  syllables  that  so  happily  restored  the  loved 
and  lost  to  each  other. 

The  following  sweet  lines  are  by  Crabbe,  the  "poet 
of  the  poor,"  whose  pictures  of  humble  life  have  charmed 
so  many  sympathetic  hearts  :  — 

Pilgrim,  burdened  with  thy  sin,  come  the  way  to  Zion's  gate  ; 
There,  till  Mercy  speaks  within,  knock  and  weep  and  watch  and 

wait: 
Knock,  He  knows  the  sinner's  cry ;  weep,  He  loves  the  mourner's 

tears ; 
Watch,  for  saving  grace  is  nigh  ;  wait  till  heavenly  grace  appears. 
Hark  !  it  is  the  Saviour's  voice,  "Welcome,  pilgrim,  to  thy  rest." 
Now  within  the  gate  rejoice,  safe  and  owned  and  bought  and  blest : 
Safe,  from  all  the  lures  of  vice  ;  owned,  by  joys  the  contrite  know ; 
Bought,  by  Love,  and  life  the  price  ;  blest,  the  mighty  debt  to  owe. 
Holy  pilgrim,  what  for  thee  in  this  world  can  now  remain  ? 
Seek  that  world  from  which  shall  flee  sorrow,  shame,  and  tears  and 

pain: 
Sorrow  shall  for  ever  fly,  shame  from  glory's  view  retire, 
Tears  be  wiped  from  every  eye,  pain  in  endless  bliss  expire. 

Blake,  the  painter  and  poet,  has  been  considered 
partially  insane,  from  his  strange  and  wild  caprice, 
alike  with  his  pen,  as  his  pencil.  Some  of  his  "Songs 
of  Innocence,"  published  in  the  year  1789,  were  en- 
graved, accompanied  with  his  illustrations  on  copper, 
by  the  author.  One  of  these  13'rics,  on  Sympathy,  is 
charming  for  its  touching  simplicity  ;  here  are  three  of 
the  stanzas :  — 

Can  I  see  another's  woe. 
And  not  be  in  sorrow  too  ? 
Can  I  see  another's  grief. 
And  not  seek  for  kind  relief? 


LATER    ENGLISH.  359 

And  can  He,  who  smiles  on  all, 
Hear  the  wren,  with  sorrows  small, 
Hear  the  small  bird's  grief  and  care, 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear. 
And  not  sit  beside  the  nest, 
Pouring  pity  in  their  breast  ? 
And  not  sit  the  cradle  near. 
Weeping  tear  on  infant's  tear  ? 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  by  ; 
Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 

Very  beautiful  it  seems,  at  this  distance  of  time  and 
space,  to  recall  the  peaceful,  almost  patriarchal,  scenes 
of  old  Scottish  homes ;  especially  on  the  Sabbath. 
With  what  reverence,  loyalty,  and  love  was  its  due 
observance  regarded  !  Scotia's  bards  have  portrayed 
the  beautiful  picture,  — Burns  in  his  "  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night,"  and  Graham  in  his  charming  poem  on  the 
Sabbath.  With  the  dawn  of  the  holy  day,  went  up 
the  glad  orisons  of  thanksgiving ;  and  when  soft  twi- 
light lingered  on  the  hill-side,' or  threw  its  shadows  on 
the  peaceful  moor,  and  motley  groups  might  be  seen 
wending  their  way  homeward  from  the  house  of  their 
solemnities,  paeans  of  praise  burst  upon  the  Sabbath 
stillness,  ever  and  anon,  as  the  shadows  increased. 
Such  sv^^eet  Sabbath  scenes  have  passed  away,  and  with 
them  the  charm  they  diffused  over  the  way-worn  spirit, 
which  was  soothing  and  refreshing  as  the  fragrant 
breath  of  flowers. 

Speaking  of  the  "  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  touching 
and  picturesque  as  is  that  beautiful  domestic  poem,  it 
has  been  doubted  whether  it  ever  taught  any  person 


360  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

to  pray.  The  sentiment  of  piety,  and  piet}'-  itself,  are 
very  distinct  things.  Sir  Walter  Scott  would  some- 
times take  his  visitors  to  an  arbor  on  his  lawn,  at  a 
certain  hour  in  the  evening,  to  listen  to  the  music  of  a 
Covenanter's  melody,  the  cadences  of  which  fell  with 
a  strange  fascination  upon  the  ear  of  the  great  minstrel 
himself;  but  it  only  touched  his  ear.  He  and  his  visit- 
ors went  back  to  the  saloons  of  Abbotsford,  not  to  raise, 
with  their  better  skill,  the  evening  hymn  of  thanks- 
giving ;  but  regarded  it  merely  through  the  medium 
of  a  romantic  imagination,  and  it  was  doubtless  soon 
forgotten  amid  the  mazes  of  the  dance  and  the  music 
and  merriment  of  fashion's  throng. 

Poor  Burns,  erratic  as  he  was,  had  some  knowl- 
edge of,  and  reverence  for,  a  nobler  life,  as  some  of 
his  poems  indicate.  But  the  poet  had  many  melan- 
choly hours,  as  a  foil  to  his  gay  and  giddy  ones. 
"There  was  a  certain  part  of  my  life,"  he  says,  "that 
my  spirit  was  broke  by  repeated  losses  and  disasters, 
which  threatened,  and  indeed  effected,  the  ruin  of  my 
fortune.  My  body,  too,  was  attacked  by  that  most 
dreadful  distemper,  a  hypochondria,  or  confirmed  mel- 
ancholy. In  this  wretched  state,  the  recollection  of 
which  makes  me  shudder,  I  hung  my  harp  upon  the 
willow-trees,  except  in  some  lucid  intervals,  in  one  of 
which  I  composed  the  following:"  — 

O  Thou  Great  Being  !  what  Thou  art,  surpasses  me  to  know  ; 
Yet  sure  I  am  that  known  to  Thee  are  all  Tliy  works  below. 
Thy  creature  here  before  Thee  stands,  all  wretched  and  distrest ; 
Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  his  soul,  obey  Thy  high  behest. 

But  if  I  must  afflicted  be,  to  suit  some  wise  design. 

Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves  to  bear,  and  not  repine. 


LATER    ENGLISH.  361 

It  is  pleasant  indeed  to  think,  with  Professor  Wilson, 
who,  speaking  of  the  closing  days  of  Burns,  says  that 
"  he  died  under  the  eegis  of  the  Christian  faith,  and 
that  he  had  his  Bible  with  him  in  his  lodgings,  and 
he  read  it  almost  continually;  often,  when  seated  on 
a  bank,  from  which  he  had  difficulty  in  rising  with- 
out assistance,  for  his  weakness  was  extreme,  and  in 
his  emaciation  he  was  like  a  ghost.  To  the  last,  he 
loved  the  sunshine,  the  grass,  and  the  flowers  ;  to  the 
last,  he  had  a  kind  look  and  word  for  the  passers-by, 
who  all  knew  it  was  Burns.  His  sceptical  doubts  no 
longer  troubled  him,  —  they  had  never  been  more  than 
shadows ;  and  he  had  at  last  the  faith  of  a  confiding 
Christian." 

Burns's  prayer,  in  the  prospect  of  death,  is  full  of 
touching  pathos :  — 

O  Thou  unknown,  almiglity  Cause  of  all  my  hope  and  fear! 
In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour,  perhaps  I  must  appear ; 
If  I  have  wandered  in  those  paths  of  life  I  ought  to  shun,  — 
As  something  loudly  in  my  breast  remonstrates  I  have  done,  — 

Where  human  weakness  has  come  short,  or  frailty  stept  aside, 

Do  Thou,  All  Good  !  —  for  such  Thou  art ! — in  shades  of  darkness 

hide. 
Where  with  intention  I  have  erred,  no  other  plea  I  have, 
But  Thou  art  good,  and  Goodness  still  delighteth  to  forgive. 

Hear  his  judgment  of  charity,  — 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone  decidedly  can  try  us  ; 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone ;  each  spring,  its  various 

bias ; 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute,  we  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute,  but  know  not  what's  resisted. 

Graham,  the  author  of  the  beautiful  poem  of  "The 
Sabbath,"   is    said   to   have   written   that  work,    and 


362  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

got  it  published,  without  his  wife  knowing  any  thing 
about  it ;  and  one  evening  he  brought  home  a  copy  to 
her,  requesting  her  to  read  it.  As  his  name  did  not 
appear  on  its  titlepage,  she  did  not  dream  that  he  had 
any  thing  to  do  with  its  authorship  :  accordingly,  she 
read  on  with  evident  interest,  while  the  sensitive  author 
paced  up  and  down  the  room.  At  length,  she  broke 
out  in  praise  of  the  poem,  and,  turning  to  him,  said, 
"Ah,  James,  if  you  could  but  produce  a  poem  like 
this ! "  The  disclosure  of  his  secret,  it  is  said,  over- 
whelmed her  with  surprise  and  pleasure. 

The  setting  orb  of  night  her  level  ray 
Shed  o'er  the  land,  and  on  the  dewy  sward 
The  lengthened  shadows  of  the  triple  cross 
Were  laid  far  stretched,  —  when  in  the  east  arose, 
Last  of  the  stars,  day's  harbinger :  no  sound 
Was  heard,  save  of  the  watching  soldier's  foot: 
Within  the  rock-barred  sepulchre,  the  gloom 
Of  deepest  midnight  brooded  o'er  the  dead, 
The  Holy  One :  but,  lo  !  a  radiance  faint 
Began  to  dawn  around  His  sacred  brow : 
The  linen  vesture  seemed  a  snowy  wreath, 
Drifted  by  storms  into  a  mountain  cave  : 
Bright  and  more  bright  the  circling  halo  beamed 
Upon  that  face,  clothed  in  a  smile  benign, 
Though  yet  exanimate.     Nor  long  the  reign 
Of  death  ;  the  eyes  that  wept  for  human  griefs 
Unclose,  and  look  around  with  conscious  joy. 
Yes  ;  with  returning  life,  the  first  emotion 
That  glowed  in  Jesus'  breast  of  love,  was  joy 
At  man's  redemption,  now  complete  ;  at  death 
Disarmed  ;  the  grave  transformed  into  the  couch 
Of  faith  ;  the  resurrection  and  the  life. 
Majestical  He  rose  :  trembled  the  earth  ; 
The  ponderous  gate  of  stone  was  rolled  away; 
The  keepers  fell ;  the  angel,  awe-struck,  sunk 
Into  invisibility,  while  forth 


LATER    ENGLISH.  363 

The  Saviour  of  the  world  walked,  and  stood 
Before  the  sepulchre,  and  viewed  the  clouds 
Empurpled  glorious  by  the  rising  sun, 

Campbell  relates  a  little  incident  touching  Graham's 
love  of  singing:  he  says,  "We  had  agreed  to  sit  up 
all  night,  and  go  together  to  Arthur's  Seat  to  see  the 
sun  rise.  We  sat,  accordingly,  all  night  in  his  delight- 
ful parlor,  the  seat  of  so  many  happy  remembrances. 
We  then  went  and  saw  a  beautiful  sunrise.  I  returned 
home  with  him,  for  I  was  living  in  his  house  at  the 
time.  He  was  unreserved  in  all  his  devoutest  feel- 
ings before  me ;  and,  from  the  beauty  of  the  morning 
scenery,  and  the  recent  death  of  his  sister,  our  conver- 
sation took  a  serious  turn,  —  on  the  proofs  of  infinite 
benevolence  in  the  creation,  and  the  goodness  of  God. 
As  I  retired  to  my  own  bed,  I  overheard  his  devotions, 
—  not  his  prayer,  but  a  hymn  which  he  sang,  and  with 
a  power  and  inspiration  beyond  himself  and  beyond 
any  thing  else." 

It  is  remarked  by  an  eminent  divine,  Robertson, 
that  "the  mysticism,  the  obscurity  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression, which  belong  to  Browning,  Tennyson,  and 
Wordsworth,  is  but  a  protest  and  witness  for  the  infi- 
nite in  the  soul  of  man."  Let  us  listen  to  the  Muse  of 
the  last  named. 

It  seems  almost  like  profanation  to  mutilate  his  mag- 
nificent "Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality,"  but 
we  have  only  space  for  a  few  lines  of  it :  — 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  : 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  Cometh  from  afar. 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 


364  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come, 

From  God  who  is  our  home. 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy; 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy. 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest. 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  Nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive. 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  ;  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast ; 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 

Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 

Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized ; 

High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 

Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  ; 

But  for  those  first  affections. 

Those  shadowy  recollections. 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 

Of  the  eternal  silence  ;  truths  that  wake, 


LATER    ENGLISH.  365 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  hstlessness  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  man,  nor  boy. 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

His  "Ode  to  Duty"  is  a  fine  piece  of  poetry;  here 
are  two  of  the  stanzas  :  — 

Stern  daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God, 

O  Duly,  if  that  name  thou  love, 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove  ; 
Thou  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe. 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free, 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity 

Serene  will  be  our  days,  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold. 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed. 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

Here  is  one  of  his  fine  hymns  :  — 

Not  seldom,  clad  in  radiant  vest. 

Deceitfully  goes  forth  the  morn  ; 
Not  seldom  evening  in  the  west 

Sinks  smilingly  forsworn. 

The  smoothest  seas  will  sometimes  prove, 

To  the  confiding  bark,  untrue  ; 
And  if  she  trust  the  stars  above. 

They  can  be  treacherous  too. 

The  umbrageous  oak,  in  pomp  outspread. 
Full  oft,  when  storms  the  welkin  rend, 

Draws  lightnings  down  upon  the  head 
It  promised  to  defend. 


366  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

But  Thou  art  true,  incarnate  Lord ! 

Who  didst  vouchsafe  for  man  to  die ; 
Thy  smile  is  sure,  Thy  plighted  word 

No  change  can  falsify. 

I  bent  before  Thy  gracious  throne, 

And  asked  for  peace  with  suppliant  knee  ; 

And  peace  was  given,  —  nor  peace  alone, 
But  faith  and  hope  and  ecstasy  ! 

Wordsworth's  life  was  eminently  beautiful  and  poetic. 
It  was  in  strict  accordance  with  his  own  idea  of  what 
a  poet's  life  should  be  :  it  was  lived  in  the  very  presence 
of  Nature,  —  Nature  in  all  her  glory;  and  "a  holy 
calm  rests  over  it,  like  sunshine  upon  a  Sabbath  day." 
We  feel  that  it  was  true  and  great,  the  reflex  of  a  true 
and  great  man.  It  was  a  life  in  which  the  spiritual 
rather  than  the  material  and  the  practical  obtain  the 
ascendency.  His  quiet,  contemplative  days  glided  on 
like  the  peaceful  lake  or  river,  making  its  own  gentle 
music  as  it  wends  its  modest  way.  Wordsworth, 
Southey,  and  Coleridge,  —  the  poetic  triad,  —  from 
their  locality,  on  the  lakes  of  Cumberland,  have  been 
styled  the  "  Lake-poets."  Wordsworth's  "  Ode  to  Im- 
mortality" is  the  most  admired  of  his  pieces.  He  says, 
"  Having  to  waeld  some  of  its  elements,  when  I  was 
impelled  to  write  this  poem  on  the  'Immortality  of 
the  Soul,'  I  took  hold  of  the  notion  of  pre-existence, 
as  having  sufficient  foundation  in  humanity  for  au- 
thorizing me  to  make  for  my  purpose  the  best  use  of 
it  I  could  as  a  poet." 

This  note  and  the  poem  itself  reveal  the  character 
of  Wordsworth's  philosophy,  and  the  secret  of  his 
habit  of  thought.  The  mystic  spiritualism  which  im- 
bues his  poetry  is  that  whicli  distinguishes  him  from 


LATER    ENGLISH.  367 

merely  descriptive  and  didactic  poets.  "  Were  this 
element  wanting  in  him,"  writes  one  of  his  biographers, 
"we  should  have  a  fine  reporter  of  Natm-e's  doings, 
a  fine  painter  of  objective  effects,  but  no  creator,  no 
idealist ;  and  therefore,  properly  speaking,  no  poet, 
in  the  high  signification  of  the  term."  He,  however, 
v/as  eminently  possessed  of  the  spiritual  faculty  :  all 
nature  to  him  was  symbolical. 

Wordsworth  seems  to  have  been  a  very  amiable  and 
excellent  man.  The  quiet  of  his  Grasmere  life  was 
relieved  by  frequent  excursions  in  the  neighborhood 
and  elsewhere.  In  1802,  after  his  visit  to  France,  he 
was  married  to  Mary  Hutchinson,  of  Penrith,  — not  a 
beauty,  but  one  of  the  most  lovable  of  women.  Every 
one  knows  the  beautiful  lines  he  addressed  to  her,  be- 
ginning, — 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight, 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

and  it  is  pleasant  to  add  that  the  illusive  charm  of  his 
first  love  never  died  out  of  his  heart.  Our  philo- 
sophic poet  was  a  great  lover  of  locomotion  ;  and,  as  he 
studied  and  composed  in  the  open  air,  he  made  good 
use  of  his  legs,  which,  however,  we  are  informed, 
were  not  so  ornamental  as  useful.  De  Quincey  informs 
us  he  had  read  that  Milton's  surviving  daughter,  when 
she  saw  the  crayon  drawing  representing  the  likeness 
of  her  father,  in  Richardson  the  painter's  octavo  vol- 
ume of  Milton,  burst  out  in  a  rapture  of  passionate 
admiration,  exclaiming,  "This  is  my  father!  this  is 
my  dear  father ! "  And  when  De  Quincey  had  pro- 
cured this  book,  he  saw  in  this  likeness  of  Milton  a 
perfect  portrait  of  Wordsworth.     The  poet's  domestic 


368  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

life  was  a  very  felicitous  one.  In  his  home  there  were 
no  jars  or  discords  ;  but  it  seems  to  have  been  a  temple 
of  the  graces  and  the  virtues.  Some  of  his  sweetest 
lyrics  date  their  origin  to  incidents  connected  with  his 
home-life.  He  closed  his  earthly  life  on  the  twenty- 
third  of  April,  1850,  the  birthday  and  deathday  ot 
Shakspeare. 

He  has  undoubtedly  written  much  poetry  that  may 
be  thought  very  prosaic ;  yet  some  of  his  produc- 
tions—  his  "  Ode  to  Immortality,"  some  of  his  sonnets, 
and  a  few  of  his  minor  pieces —  are  unsurpassed,  and 
likely  to  remain  so.  As  Byron  and  Moore  recede, 
Milton  and  Wordsworth  will  advance  in  popular  re- 
nown ;  and  a  good  sign  it  is,  for  it  indicates  that 
the  moral  is  asserting  its  just  authority  over  the  sen- 
suous. 

It  was  Wordsworth's  custom  to  compose  in  the 
open  air.  His  servant  once  said  to  a  visitor :  "This, 
sir,  is  my  master's  library :  his  study  is  out  of  doors." 
He  had  a  great  dislike  to  writing ;  and  his  sister,  or 
some  other  member  of  his  family,  was  always  at  hand 
to  perform  for  him  the  office  of  amanuensis. 

We  must  take  our  leave  of  Nature's  great  bard, 
rehearsing  his  fine  admonitory  sonnet :  — 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;   late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers. 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  : 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away, — a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon  ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours. 
And  are  up-gathered  now,  like  sleeping  flowers, — 
For  this,  for  every  thing,  we're  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan,  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn, 


LATER    ENGLISH.  369 

So  might  I,  standing  on  tliis  pleasant  lee, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn  ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the  sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

Montgomery,  who  was  born  at  Irvine,  in  Ayrshire, 
1771,  is,  from  his  long  residence  in  Sheffield,  often 
supposed  to  have  been  an  Englishman.  His  father 
was  a  Moravian  missionary,  who  died  at  the  island  of 
Tobago.  Montgomery's  first  volume  of  poems  was 
called  "  The  Wanderer  of  Switzerland,  and  other 
Poems ; "  but  his  later  productions,  including  his 
"  Songs  of  Zion,"  which  have  cheered  many  a  Chris- 
tian heart,  are  his  most  characteristic  and  popular 
works. 

The  beautiful  sacred  lyrics  of  Montgomery  live 
not  only  in  our  church-books  of  psalmody,  but  some 
are  also  embalmed  in  the  common  heart  of  Christen- 
dom. Who  does  not  remember  his  fine  poem,  "Oh, 
where  shall  rest  be  found?"  And  where  shall  we  find 
a  nobler  burst  of  elevated  sentiment  in  song  than  is 
to  be  found  in  his  Advent  hymn,  "Angels,  from  the 
realms  of  glory"?  Others  might  be  referred  to  in 
which  are  passages  of  a  high  order  of  poetry ;  as 
in  his  noble  missionary  hymn,  commencing,  "  O 
Spirit  of  the  living  God,"  and  especially  the  Miltonic 
stanza :  — 

O  Spirit  of  the  Lord,  prepare 
All  the  round  earth  her  God  to  meet ; 

Breathe  Thou  abroad,  like  morning  air, 
Till  hearts  of  stone  begin  to  beat. 

His  deep  interest  in  the  missionary  emprise  may 
be  seen  in  his  noble  paean,  "Hark!  the  song  of 
Jubilee ! " 

24 


370 


EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 


His  popular  poem,  "The  Common  Lot,"  consisting 
of  ten  Stanzas,  was  written  during  a  country  walk  in 
the  snow,  on  his  thirty-fourth  birthday  anniversary. 
Montgomery's  earlier  days  were  troublous  and  dis- 
turbed, —  little  suited  to  the  contemplative  habits  of  a 
poet.  But  he  was,  indeed,  more  than  a  poet,  he 
was  a  philanthropist;  and,  because  of  his  conscien- 
tious opposition  to  slavery,  and  other  then  existing 
abuses,  he  became  the  victim  of  political  persecution. 
In  1797,  a  volume  of  his  minor  poems  was  published, 
under  the  significant  title  of  "  Prison  Amusements." 
Religious  and  benevolent  objects  found  in  him  an 
earnest  and  zealous  advocate ;  and  even  his  secular 
poems  possessed  a  religious  tendency  and  aim.  If 
the  reader  is  acquainted  with  the  published  memoirs 
of  the  poet,  he  will  recall  the  touching  incident  of  his 
friend.  Dr.  Holland,  reciting  his  hymns  to  him,  when 
advanced  in  years,  and  seriously  ill.  "Read  on,"  he 
said,  "I  am  glad  to  hear  you  :  the  words  recall  the  feel- 
ings which  first  suggested  them  ;  and  it  is  good  for  me 
to  feel  affected  and  humbled  by  the  terms  in  which 
I  have  endeavored  to  provide  for  the  expression  of 
similar  religious  experience  in  others.  As  all  my 
hymns  embody  some  portions  of  the  history  of  the 
joys  or  sorrows,  the  hopes  and  the  fears  of  this  poor 
heart,  so  I  cannot  doubt  but  that  they  will  be  found  an 
acceptable  vehicle  of  expression  of  the  experience  of 
many  of  my  fellow-creatures  who  may  be  similarly 
exercised  during  the  pilgrimage  of  their  Christian 
life."  That  beautiful  description  of  Prayer  —  which, 
by  some  strange  fatuity,  is  placed  in  our  Collections 
among  hymns  of  prayer  or  praise  —  is  really  onl) 
a    descriptive    poem.      We   refer   to   the   well-known 


LATER    ENGLISH.  37 1 

lines,  commencing,  "  Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere 
desire." 

His  Muse,  like  Cowper's,  has  contributed  numerous 
sacred  lyrics ;  free  from  dogmas,  and  being  inspired 
by  the  religion  of  love,  they  are  eminently  designed 
to  diffuse  the  love  of  religion. 

A  love  of  poetry  was  kindled  in  Montgomery  by 
hearing  Blair's  "  Grave  "  read  to  him  in  his  school- 
days. From  his  early  school-days,  therefore,  he  may 
be  said  to  have  wooed  the  Muse.  It  has  been  well 
said  that  "his  history  affords  a  fine  example  of  virtuous 
and  successful  perseverance,  and  of  genius  devoted  to 
pure  and  noble  ends, — not  a  feverish,  tumultuous,  and 
splendid  career,  like  that  of  some  greater  poetical  heirs 
of  immortality,  but  a  course  ever  brightening  as  it  pro- 
ceeded,—  calm,  useful,  and  happy." 

Montgomery's  "  Stranger  and  his  Friend  "  has  been 
esteemed  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  sacred 
poems  :  — 

A  poor  wayfaring  Man  of  grief 
Hath  often  crossed  me  on  my  way, 
Who  sued  so  humbly  for  relief, 
That  I  could  never  answer,  "  Nay :  " 
I  had  not  power  to  ask  his  name, 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came  ; 
Yet  there  was  something  in  his  eye 
That  won  my  love,  I  knew  not  why. 

Once,  when  my  scanty  meal  was  spread, 
He  entered,  —  not  a  word  he  spake, — 
Just  perishing  for  want  of  bread  ; 
I  gave  him  all :  he  blessed  it,  brake, 
And  ate,  —  but  gave  me  part  again. 
Mine  was  an  angel's  portion  then  ; 
For,  while  I  fed  with  eager  haste, 
That  crust  was  manna  to  my  taste. 


372  EVENINGS   WITH   THE    SACRED    POETS. 

I  spied  him  where  a  fountain  burst 

Clear  from  the  rock  :  his  strength  was  gone ; 

The  heedless  water  mocked  his  thirst, 

He  heard  it,  saw  it  hurrying  on  : 

I  ran  to  raise  the  sufferer  up  ; 

Thrice  from  the  stream  he  drained  my  cup, 

Dipt,  and  returned  it  running  o'er ; 

I  drank,  and  never  thirsted  more. 

'Twas  night, —  the  floods  were  out,  —  it  blew 

A  winter  hurricane  aloof; 

I  heard  his  voice  abroad,  and  flew 

To  bid  him  welcoire  to  my  roof: 

I  warmed,  I  clothed,  I  cheered  my  guest. 

Laid  him  on  my  own  couch  to  rest ; 

Then  made  the  hearth  my  bed,  and  seemed 

In  Eden's  garden  while  I  dreamed. 

Stript,  wounded,  beaten,  nigh  to  death, 
I  found  him  by  the  highway-side  ; 
I  roused  his  pulse,  brought  back  his  breath. 
Revived  his  spirit,  and  supplied 
Wine,  oil,  refreshment ;  he  was  healed ; 
I  had  myself  a  wound  concealed  ; 
But  from  that  hour  forgot  the  smart, 
And  Peace  bound  up  my  broken  heart 

There  are  two  more  exquisite  stanzas  which  close 
the  poem. 

Montgomery's  "  Death  of  Adam  "  has  been  consid- 
ered one  of  his  finest  poems,  alike  for  its  conception, 
imagery,  and  language ;  but  his  most  popular  pieces 
are  those  already  cited,  and  his  lines  "Via  Crucis,  via 
Lucis,"  "Oh,  where  shall  rest  be  found?"  and  the 
beautiful  hymn,  — 

Wliat  are  these  in  bright  array, 

This  innumerable  throng. 
Round  the  altar  night  and  day. 

Hymning  one  triumphant  song, — 


LATER    ENGLISH.  373 

"  Worthy  is  the  Lamb  once  slain, 

Blessing,  honor,  glory,  power, 
Wisdom,  riches,  to  obtain 

New  dominion  every  hour"  ? 
These  through  fiery  trials  trod  ; 

These  from  great  affliction  came ; 
Now  before  the  throne  of  God, 

Sealed  with  His  almighty  name  ; 
Clad  in  raiment  pure  and  white, 

Victor-palms  in  every  hand, 
Through  their  dear  Redeemer's  might, 

More  than  conquerors  they  stand. 

His  hymn  commencing,  "  Spirit,  leave  thy  house 
of  clay,"  was  composed  during  his  political  persecu- 
tion in  York  Castle ;  and  was  occasioned  by  the  death 
of  one  of  his  fellow-prisoners,  who,  with  seven  others, 
had  suffered  the  loss  of  all  worldly  goods  for  con- 
science' sake.  The  following  simple,  touching  lines, 
may  not  be  familiar  to  the  reader,  not  being  included 
in  his  collected  works  :  — 

"  Father,  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done," — 
So  prayed  on  earth  Thy  suffering  Son  : 

So,  in  His  name,  I  pray ; 
The  spirit  fails,  the  flesh  is  weak, 
Thy  help  in  agony  I  seek  ; 

Oh,  take  this  cup  away  ! 

If  such  be  not  Thy  sovereign  will. 
Thy  better  purpose  then  fulfil. 

My  wishes  I  resign  ; 
Into  thy  hands  my  soul  commend. 
On  Thee  for  life  or  death  depend  ; 

Thy  will  be  done,  not  mine  ! 

Our  familiarity  with  his  lines  on  Night  does  not 
lessen  their  impressive  beauty :  listen  to  one  or  two  of 
the  stanzas,  —  what  a  hushed  feeling  of  sadness  they 
seem  to  convey  !  — 


374  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Night  is  the  time  for  rest :  how  sweet,  when  labors  close, 
To  gather  round  an  aching  breast  the  curtain  of  repose, 

Stretch  the  tired  limbs,  and  lay  the  head 

Upon  our  own  delightful  bed ! 

Night  is  the  time  to  muse  :  then  from  the  eye  the  soul 

Takes  flight,  and,  witli  expanding  views,  beyond  the  starry  pole 

Descries,  athwart  the  abyss  of  night, 

The  dawn  of  uncreated  light ! 

Night  is  the  time  to  pray :  our  Saviour  oft  withdrew 

To  desert  mountains  far  away  ;  so  will  His  followers  do, — 

Steal  from  the  throng  to  haunts  untrod. 

And  hold  communion  there  with  God. 


His  impressive  lines  on  the  Grave,  so  familiar,  are 
yet  ever  fresh  with  the  inspiration  of  the  theme  :  — 

There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 
A  rest  for  weary  pilgrims  found  ; 
And  while  the  mouldering  ashes  sleep 
Low  in  the  ground,  — 

The  soul,  of  origin  divine,  — 
God's  glorious  image  freed  from  cla      — 
In  heaven's  eternal  sphere  shall  shine, 
A  star  of  day  ! 

The  sun  is  but  a  spark  of  fire, 
A  transient  meteor  in  the  sky ; 
The  soul,  immortal  as  its  Sire, 
Shall  never  die ! 

Replete  with   tender  pathos   are   his   lines   on  the 
«  Death  of  a  Friend  :  "  — 

Friend  after  friend  departs  !  who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 
There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts,  that  finds  not  here  an  end . 

Were  this  frail  world  our  final  rest. 

Living  or  dying,  none  were  blest. 


LATER    ENGLISH.  375 

Beyond  the  flight  of  Time,  beyond  the  reign  of  Death, 

There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime,  where  Life  is  not  a  breath  ! 

Nor  life's  affections,  transient  fire. 

Whose  sparks  fly  upward  and  expire. 

There  is  a  world  above,  where  parting  is  unknown  ! 
A  long  eternity  of  love,  formed  for  the  good  alone : 

And  faith  beholds  the  dying  here 

Translated  to  that  glorious  sphere  ! 

Our  last  selection  shall  be  his  Funeral  chant :  — 

Servant  of  God,  well  done  !    Rest  from  thy  loved  employ ; 

The  battle  o'er,  the  victory  won,  —  enter  thy  Master's  joy  ! 

The  cry  at  midnight  came,  he  started  up  to  hear ; 

A  mortal  arrow  pierced  his  frame  :  he  fell,  but  felt  no  fear. 

His  spirit  with  a  bound  left  its  encumbering  clay  ; 

His  tent,  at  sunrise,  on  the  ground  a  darkened  ruin  lay. 

The  above  suggests  the  beautiful  tribute  to  the  de- 
parted, by  Anne  Steele  :  — 

Forgive,  blest  shade,  the  tributary  tear 

That  mourns  thy  exit  from  a  world  like  this  ; 
Forgive  the  wish  that  would  have  kept  thee  here. 

And  stayed  thy  progress  to  the  seats  of  bliss. 
No  more  confined  by  grovelling  scenes  of  night, 

No  more  a  tenant  pent  in  mortal  clay  ; 
Now  should  we  rather  hail  thy  glorious  flight. 

And  trace  thy  journey  to  the  realms  of  day ! 

There  is  a  familiar  hymn,  beginning,  "Hail,  sover- 
eign Love  !  that  first  began,"  originally  extending  to 
nine  stanzas,  which  was  written  by  Rev.  J.  Brewer, 
a  Congregationalist  minister,  of  Rodborough,  Eng- 
land. He  subsequently  removed  to  Sheffield,  and 
Birmingham.      He  died  in   1817. 

Coleridge  considered  the  sonnet  on  "Night  and 
Death,"  by  the  Rev.  J.  Blanco  White,  —  a  proselyte 


376  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

from  Romanism,  —  the  finest  and  most  grandly  con- 
ceived in  the  language  :  — 

Mysterious  Night !    When  our  first  parents  knew 

Thee  from  report  Divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 

Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 
Yet  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 

Hesperus,  with  the  host  of  heaven,  came, 
And  lo !  Creation  widened  in  man's  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 

Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun  !  or  who  could  find. 
Whilst  fly  and  leaf  and  insect  stood  revealed. 

That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind? 
Why  do  we,  then,  shun  death  with  anxious  strife  ? 
If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life  ? 

Coleridge  (1772-1834),  one  of  the  finest  minds  Eng- 
land has  produced,  has  been  compared  to  an  unfinished 
cathedral,  —  grand  in  its  proportions,  but  defective, 
because  incomplete.  And  yet  no  man  of  letters  since 
Johnson  has  perhaps  been  more  admired  by  his  coun- 
trymen. His  scholarship,  like  his  conversation,  was 
great.  But  for  his  sad  proclivity  to  the  baneful  drug 
that  had  well-nigh  been  his  ruin,  he  would  have  been 
one  of  the  greatest  of  England's  scholars.  True  poet 
as  he  is,  yet  most  of  his  subjects  do  not  come  within 
the  range  of  our  selections.  Here  is  a  striking  passage 
from  his  poems  :  — 

In  some  hour  of  solemn  jubilee 
The  massy  gates  of  paradise  are  thrown 
Wide  open,  and  forth  come,  in  fragments  wild, 
Sweet  echoes  of  unearthly  melodies, 
And  odors  snatched  from  beds  of  amaranth, 
And  they  that  from  the  crystal  river  of  Ufa 


LATER    ENGLISH.  377 

Sprung  up  on  freshened  wing,  ambrosial  gales ! 
The  favored  good  man  in  his  lonely  walk 
Perceives  them,  and  his  silent  spirit  drinks 
Strange  bliss,  which  he  shall  recognize  in  heaven. 

His  "  Hymn  on  Chamouni "  has  been  called  the 
grandest  burst  of  poetic  praise  in  the  language.  Listen 
to  the  closing  lines,  thus  apostrophizing  Mont  Blanc : 

Rise,  oh,  ever  rise  ! 
Rise,  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth, 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills. 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven  ! 
Great  hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 

His  "Youth  and  Age,"  like  his  "Ancient  Mariner" 
and  "Genevieve,"  it  is  presumed,  we  all  know. 

Hartley  Coleridge,  the  gifted  son  of  a  gifted  father, 
was  born  in  1796,  and  died  in  1849.  The  following 
sweetly  worded  sonnet  is  his  :  — 

SHE  LOVED   MUCH. 

She  sat  and  wept  beside  His  feet.     The  weight 

Of  sin  opprest  her  heart ;  for  all  the  blame, 

And  the  poor  malice  of  the  worldly  shame. 

To  her  was  past,  extinct,  and  out  of  date  ; 

Only  the  sin  remained,  —  the  leprous  state. 

She  would  be  melted  by  the  heat  of  love, 

By  fires  far  fiercer  than  are  blown  to  prove 

And  purge  the  silver  ore  adulterate. 

She  sat  and  wept,  and  with  her  untressed  hair 

Still  wiped  the  feet  she  was  so  blest  to  touch  ; 

And  He  wiped  off  the  soiling  of  despair 

From  her  sweet  soul,  because  she  loved  so  much ! 

I  am  a  sinner,  full  of  doubts  and  fears  ; 

Make  me  a  humble  thing  of  love  and  tears  ! 


37^'  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

The  following  is  also  his  :  — 

If  I  have  sinned  in  act,  I  may  repent : 

If  I  have  erred  in  thought,  I  may  disclaim 

My  silent  error,  and  yet  feel  no  shame  ; 

But  if  my  soul,  big  with  an  ill  intent, 

Guilty  in  will,  by  fate  be  innocent. 

Or,  being  bad,  yet  murmurs  at  the  curse 

And  incapacity  of  being  worse, 

That  makes  my  hungry  passion  still  keep  Lent 

In  keen  experience  of  a  carnival : 

Where,  in  all  worlds,  that  round  the  sun  revolve 

And  shed  their  influence  on  this  passive  ball, 

Abides  a  power  that  can  my  soul  absolve  ? 

Could  any  sin  survive,  and  be  forgiven, 

One  sinful  wish  would  make  a  hell  of  heaven. 

Southey   wrote    these    admirable    counsels    to    the 
afflicted  :  — 

The  wounded  heart  is  prone  to  entertain 

Presumptuous  thoughts,  and  feelings  which  arraign 

The  appointed  course  of  things  ;  but  what  are  we, 

Short-sighted  creatures  of  an  hour, 

That  we  should  judge  ?     In  part  alone  we  see, 

And  this  but  dimly.     He  who  ordereth  all, 

Beholdeth  all,  at  once,  and  to  the  end  : 

Upon  His  wisdom  and  His  power. 

His  mercy  and  His  boundless  love,  we  rest ; 

And,  resting  thus  in  humble  faith,  we  know, 

Whether  the  present  be  for  weal  or  woe. 

For  us  whatever  is  must  needs  be  best 


Methinks,  if  ye  would  know 

How  visitations  of  calamity 

Affect  the  pious  soul,  'tis  shown  you  here  : 

Look  yonder  at  the  cloud,  which,  through  the  sky 

Saihng  along,  doth  cross  in  her  career 

The  rolling  moon  :   I  watched  it  as  it  came, 

And  deemed  the  deep  opaque  would  blot  her  beams, 


LATER    ENGLISH.  379 

But,  melting  like  a  wreatli  of  snow,  it  hangs 
In  folds  of  wavy  silver  round,  and  clothes 
The  orb  with  richer  beauties  than  her  own ; 
Then,  passing,  leaves  her  in  her  light  serene. 

What  an  impressive  prayer  is  this  !  — 

Lord  !  who  art  merciful  as  well  as  just, 
Incline  Thine  ear  to  me,  a  child  of  dust. 
Not  what  I  would,  O  Lord  !  I  offer  Thee, 

Alas  !  but  what  I  can. 
Father  Almighty !  who  hast  made  me  man, 
And  bade  me  look  to  heaven,  for  Thou  art  there,  — 
Accept  my  sacrifice  and  humble  prayer. 
Four  things,  which  are  not  in  Thy  treasury, 
I  lay  before  Thee,  Lord,  with  this  petition  : 

My  nothingness,  my  wants, 

My  sins,  and  my  contrition. 

Mrs.  Southey's  touching  stanzas  on  the  "Pauper's 
Death-bed"  are  very  impressive.  Here  is  an  ex- 
tract :  — 

Tread  softly,  —  bow  the  head,  in  reverent  silence  bow, — 
No  passing  bell  doth  toll,  yet  an  immortal  soul 

Is  passing  now. 
Stranger,  however  great,  with  lowly  reverence  bow ; 
There's  one  in  that  poor  shed,  one  by  that  paltry  bed, 

Greater  than  thou. 

O  change,  O  wondrous  change  !  burst  are  the  prison-bars, 
This  moment,  there  so  low,  so  agonized,  and  now 

Beyond  the  stars. 
O  change,  stupendous  change  !  there  lies  the  soulless  clod : 
The  sun  eternal  breaks,  the  new  immortal  wakes,  — 

Wakes  with  his  God  ! 

These  lines  are  also  from  her  pen  :  — 


380  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

I  weep,  but  not  rebellious  tears  ;  I  mourn,  but  not  in  hopeless  woe ; 
I  droop,  but  not  with  doubtful  fears  ;  for  whom  I've  trusted,  Him  I 
know. 

Lord,  I  believe,  —  assuage  my  grief, 

And  help,  oh,  help,  mine  unbelief ' 

My  days  of  youth  and  health  are  o'er,  my  early  friends  are  dead  and 

gone; 
And  there  are  times  it  tries  me  sore  to  think  I'm  left  on  earth  alone  ; 

But  then  Faith  whispers,  "  'Tis  not  so  : 

He  will  not  leave,  nor  let  thee  go." 

Campbell's  polished  and  elaborate  poems  are  among 
the  best  lyrics  in  the  language  ;  we  refer  especially  to 
his  "Last  INIan,"  "What's  Hallowed  Ground,"  "The 
Rainbow,"  &c.  We  have  only  space  to  admit  portions 
of  his  "  Last  Man  "  :  — 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, 

The  sun  himself  must  die, 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  immortality. 
I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 
That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  Time  : 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould. 
That  shall  creation's  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime. 
The  sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare, 

The  earth  with  age  was  wan, 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man. 
Some  had  exjjired  in  fight,  the  brands 
Still  resting  in  their  bony  hands  ; 

In  plague  and  famine,  some  : 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread, 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb. 
Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

With  dauntless  words  and  high. 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood. 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by,  — 


LATER    ENGLISH.  38 1 

Saying,  "  We  are  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun, 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

'Tis  Mercy  bids  thee  go. 
For  thou,  ten  thousand  thousand  years, 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

E'en  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire  ; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies. 

Behold  not  me  expire. 
My  lips  shall  speak  thy  dirge  of  death  ; 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 

To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast. 
The  eclipse  of  nature  spreads  my  pall, 
The  majesty  of  darkness  shall 

Receive  my  parting  ghost. 
This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

Who  gave  its  heavenly  spark ; 
Yet  think  not.  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark : 
No  :  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bhss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, 

By  Him  recalled  to  breath. 
Who  captive  led  Captivity, 
Who  robbed  the  grave  of  victory, 

And  took  the  sting  from  death. 
Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  me  up, 

On  nature's  awful  waste. 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste,  — 
Go,  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face. 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Adam's  race. 

On  earth's  sepulchral  clod. 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God." 

Campbell's  estimate  of  posthumous  fame  is  strikingly 
impressive:  he  said,  "When  I  think  of  the  existence 
which  shall  commence  when  the  stone  is  laid  over  my 


382  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

head,  how  can  literary  fame  appear  to  me,  to  any  one, 
but  as  nothing?  I  believe,  when  I  am  gone,  justice 
will  be  done  to  me  in  this  way,  —  that  I  was  a  pure 
writer.  It  is  an  inexpressible  comfort,  at  my  time  of 
life,  to  be  able  to  look  back,  and  feel  that  I  have  not 
written  one  line  against  religion  or  virtue." 

There  is  an  impressive  sonnet  on  "  Immortality,"  by 
our  American  artist-poet,  Washington  Allston  :  — 

To  think  for  aye  !  to  breathe  immortal  breath, 
And  know  nor  hope,  nor  fear,  of  ending  death  ; 
To  see  the  myriad  worlds  that  round  us  roll 
Wax  old  and  perish,  while  the  steadfast  soul 
Stands  fresh  and  moveless  in  her  sphere  of  thought; 
O  God  omnipotent !  who  in  me  wrought 
This  conscious  world,  whose  ever-growing  orb, 
When  the  dead  Past  shall  all  in  time  absorb, 
Will  be  but  as  begun,  —  oh,  of  Thine  own 
Give  of  the  holy  light  that  veils  Thy  throne. 
That  darkness  be  not  mine,  to  take  my  place 
Beyond  the  reach  of  light,  a  blot  in  space  ! 
So  may  this  wondrous  life,  from  sin  made  free, 
Reflect  Thy  love  for  aye,  and  to  Thy  glory  be  ! 

Some  of  the  sacred  lyrics  of  Moore  are  exquisite. 
Here  are  two  or  three  :  — 

As  down  in  the  sunless  retreats  of  the  ocean, 

Sweet  flowers  are  springing  no  mortal  can  see, 
So,  deep  in  my  soul,  the  still  prayer  of  devotion, 
Unheard  by  the  world,  rises  silent  to  Thee, 
My  God  !  silent  to  Thee  ! 
Pure,  warm,  silent  to  Thee. 

As  still  to  the  star  of  its  worship,  though  clouded, 

The  needle  points  faithfully  o'er  the  dim  sea. 
So,  dark  as  I  roam,  in  this  wintry  world  shrouded, 
The  hope  of  my  spirit  turns  trembling  to  Thee, 
My  God  !  trembling  to  Thee  ! 
True,  fond,  trembling  to  Thee. 


LATER    ENGLISH.  383 

Oh  Thou  who  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear, 

How  dark  this  world  would  be, 
If,  when  deceived  and  wounded  here, 

We  could  not  fly  to  Thee ! 
The  friends  who  in  our  sunshine  live, 

When  winter  comes,  are  flown ; 
And  he  who  has  but  tears  to  give. 

Must  weep  those  tears  alone  ; 
But  Thou  wilt  heal  that  broken  heart. 

Which,  like  the  plants  that  throw 
Their  fragrance  from  the  wounded  part, 

Breathes  sweetness  out  of  woe. 
When  joy  no  longer  soothes  or  cheers, 

And  even  the  hope  that  threw 
A  moment's  sparkle  o'er  our  tears, 

Is  dimmed  and  vanished  too. 
Oh,  who  would  bear  life's  stormy  doom. 

Did  not  Thy  wing  of  love 
Come  brightly  wafting  through  the  gloom 

One  Peace-branch  from  above  ! 
Then  sorrow,  touched  by  Thee,  grows  bright, 

With  more  than  rapture's  ray, 
As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  of  light 

We  never  saw  by  day. 


This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show. 

For  man's  illusion  given  : 
The  smiles  of  joy,  the  tears  of  woe. 
Deceitful  shine,  deceitful  flow  : 

There's  nothing  true  but  heaven  ! 

And  false  the  light  on  glory's  plume. 

As  fading  hues  of  even  — 
And  love  and  hope  and  beauty's  bloom 
Are  blossoms  gathered  for  the  tomb : 

There's  nothing  bright  but  heaven  ! 

Poor  wanderers  of  a  stormy  day. 

From  wave  to  wave  we're  driven ; 
And  fancy's  flash,  and  reason's  ray, 
Serve  but  to  light  the  troubled  way : 
There's  nothing  calm  but  heaven  ! 


384  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

One  of  the  best  of  Moore's  sacred  lyrics  is  the  fol- 
lowing :  — 

The  bird  let  loose  in  Eastern  skies,  when  hastening  fondly  home, 
Ne'er  stoops  to  earth  her  wing,  nor  flies  where  idle  warblers  roam. 
But  high  she  shoots  through  air  and  light,  above  all  low  delay, 
Where  nothing  earthly  bounds  her  flight,  nor  shadow  dims  her  way. 
So  grant  me,  God,  from  every  care  and  stain  of  passion  free, 
Aloft  through  virtue's  purer  air  to  hold  my  course  to  Thee  ! 
No  sin  to  cloud,  no  lure  to  stay  my  soul,  as  home  she  springs  ; 
Thy  sunshine  on  her  joyful  way,  Thy  freedom  in  her  wings  ! 


Angel  of  charity,  who,  from  above, 

Comest  to  dwell  a  pilgrim  here, 
Thy  voice  is  music,  thy  smile  is  love. 

And  Pity's  soul  is  in  thy  tear. 
When  on  the  shrine  of  God  were  laid 

First-fruits  of  all  most  good  and  fair 
That  ever  bloomed  in  Eden's  shade. 

Thine  was  the  holiest  ofiering  there. 
Hope,  and  her  sister.  Faith,  were  given 

But  as  our  guides  to  yonder  sky ; 
Soon  as  they  reach  the  verge  of  Heaven, 

There,  lost  in  perfect  bliss,  they  die. 
But  long  as  Love,  almighty  Love, 

Shall  on  His  throne  of  thrones  abide. 
Thou,  Charity,  shalt  dwell  above, 

Smiling  for  ever  by  His  side. 


Come,  ye  disconsolate,  where'er  you  languish, 

Come,  at  God's  altar  fervently  kneel ; 
Here  bring  your  wounded  hearts,  here  tell  your  anguish, — 

Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  Heaven  cannot  heal. 
Joy  of  the  desolate.  Light  of  the  straying, 

Hope,  when  all  others  die,  fadeless  and  pure. 
Here  speaks  the  Comforter,  in  God's  name  saying, 

Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  Heaven  cannot  cure. 

The  Muse  of  Moore,  like  that  of  Byron,  seems  too 
often  to  have  revelled  and  luxuriated  amidst  the  seduc- 


LATER    ENGLISH. 


385 


tive  scenes  of  vice;  yet  when  religion  does  inspire 
her  song,  her  strains  are  so  sweet  that  we  cannot  but 
regret  that  her  flights  had  not  been  more  often  heaven- 
ward. Another  of  his  most  admired  sacred  pieces  is 
"Miriam's  Song:"  — 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea  ! 
Jehovah  has  triumphed,  His  people  are  free  ! 
Sing,  for  the  pride  of  the  tyrant  is  broken  ; 

His  chariots,  his  horsemen,  all  splendid  and  brave, — 
How  vain  was  their  boast !  for  the  Lord  hath  but  spoken, 

And  chariots  and  horsemen  are  sunk  in  the  wave. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ! 
Jehovah  has  triumphed.  His  people  are  free  ! 
Praise  to  the  Conqueror,  praise  to  the  Lord ! 
His  Word  was  our  arrow,  His  breath  was  our  sword! 
Who  shall  return  to  tell  Egypt  the  story 

Of  those  she  sent  forth  in  the  hour  of  her  pride  ? 
For  the  Lord  hath  looked  out  from  His  pillar  of  glory, 

And  all  her  brave  thousands  are  dashed  in  the  tide. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ! 
Jehovah  has  triumphed.  His  people  are  free  ! 

Scarcely  less  beautiful  is  the  following,  from  the 
same  source  :  — 

Is  it  not  sweet  to  think,  hereafter, 

When  the  spirit  leaves  this  sphere. 
Love,  with  deathless  wing,  shall  waft  her 

To  those  she  long  hath  mourned  for  here  ? 
Hearts,  from  which  'twas  death  to  sever ; 

Eyes,  this  world  can  ne'er  restore, — 
There,  as  warm,  as  bright  as  ever, 

Shall  meet  us,  and  be  lost  no  more. 

Hope  still  lifts  her  radiant  finger, 

Pointing  to  the  eternal  home  ; 
Upon  whose  portal  yet  they  linger, 

Looking  back  for  us  to  come. 

25 


386  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Horace  Smith's  "Hymn  to  the  Flowers"  is  replete 
with  delicate  and  impressive  imagery  :  let  us  con  over 
some  of  the  stanzas  :  — 

Day-stars  !  that  ope  your  frovvnless  eyes,  to  twinkle 
From  rainbow-galaxies  of  earth's  creation, 

And  dew-drops  on  her  lonely  altars  sprinkle, 
As  a  libation ! 

Ye  matin  worshippers  !  who,  bending  lowly 

Before  the  uprisen  sun  —  God's  lidless  eye  — 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high. 

Ye  bright  mosaics  !  that  with  storied  beauty 

The  floor  of  Nature's  temple  tessellate, 
What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty 

Your  forms  create ! 

Your  voiceless  hps,  O  flowers  !  are  living  preachers : 

Each  cup  a  pulpit,  and  each  leaf  a  book, 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 

From  loneliest  nook. 

Ephemeral  sages  !  what  instructors  hoary 

For  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope  ? 

Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  tnori, 
Yet  fount  of  Hope ! 

Were  I  in  churchless  solitudes  remaining. 

Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  or  divines. 
My  soul  would  find  in  flowers  of  God's  ordaining 

Priests,  sermons,  shrines. 

Dear  to  every  section  of  the  Christian  Church  are 
the  sweet  measures  of  the  poet-bishop,  Heber,  who 
lived  1783-1826.  Some  of  them  are  odes,  but  all  are 
infused  with  the  poetic  element  to  the  highest  degree. 
"From  Greenland's  icy  mountains''  is  an  instance  in 
point ;  and  so  is  his  beautiful  "  Epiphany  Hymn  ;"  it  is 


LATER    ENGLISH.  387 

really  an  apostrophe  to  a  star,  rather  than  a  hymn, — 
"  Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning."  The 
former  was  written  at  Hodnet,  Shropshire,  in  1820, 
and  was  sung  by  his  congregation  after  a  sermon  ap- 
pealing to  them  on  behalf  of  missions.  This  remark- 
able h3'mn  explains  Heber's  devoted  course  in  India, 
since  he  could  not 

to  men  benighted 
The  lamp  of  Hfe  deny. 

When  sailing  to  Madras,  with  a  detachment  of  in- 
valid troops  on  board,  Bishop  Heber  acted  as  their 
pastor.  "I  have  too  little  in  my  situation,"  said  he, 
"of  those  pastoral  duties,  which  are  as  useful  to  the 
minister  as  to  his  people ;  and  I  am  delighted  at  the 
opportunity  thus  unexpectedly  afforded  me."  And  so, 
with  his  Prayer-book  in  his  hand,  he  went  below,  from 
time  to  time,  to  minister  to  the  sufferers. 

His  exquisite  stanzas  at  a  funeral  present  a  remark- 
able instance  of  poetic  compression,  the  closing  stanza 
especially :  — 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  !  but  'twere  vain  to  deplore  thee, 
When  God  was  thy  ransom,  thy  guardian,  thy  guide ; 
He  gave  thee,  He  took  thee,  and  He  will  restore  thee, 
And  death  hath  no  sting  since  the  Saviour  hath  died. 

We  are  all  familiar  with  Byron's  brilliant  apostrophe 
to  the  genius  of  Henry  Kirke  White ;  yet  it  will  bear 
repeating,  for  its  intrinsic  beauty,  and  it  will  best  in- 
troduce a  name  that  claims  our  admiration  and  our 
pity. 

Unhappy  White  !  when  life  was  in  its  spring, 
And  thy  young  Muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  swept  that  soaring  lyre  away, 
Wliich  else  had  sounded  an  immortal  lay. 


388  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Oh,  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone, 
When  Science'  self  destroyed  her  favorite  son  ! 

'Twas  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow, 

And  helped  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low ! 

So  the  struck  eagle,  stretched  upon  the  plain, 

No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 

Viewed  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 

And  winged  the  shaft  that  quivered  to  his  heart. 

His  excessive  studies,  pursued  too  often  by  the  light  of 
the  midnight  lamp,  gave  to  him  high  rank  in  the  halls 
of  learning  ;  although  the  achievement  was  purchased 
by  the  sacrifice  of  his  life,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty- 
three  years. 

His  splendid  poem,  the  "Star  of  Bethlehem,"  is  des- 
tined to  live  in  the  memories  and  hearts  of  all  lovers 
of  sacred  song  :  — 

When  marshalled  on  the  nightly  plain 

The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky, 
One  star  alone  of  all  the  train 

Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye : 
Hark,  hark  !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 

From  every  host,  from  every  gem, 
But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks,  — 

It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  ! 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode  ; 

The  storm  was  loud,  the  night  was  dark ; 
The  ocean  yawned,  and  rudely  blowed 

The  wind  that  tossed  my  foundering  bark : 
Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 
When  suddenly  a  star  arose,  — 

It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  ! 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 

It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease  ; 
And,  through  the  storm  and  danger's  thrall, 

It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 


LATER    ENGLISH.  389 

Now,  safely  moored,  my  perils  o'er, 

I'll  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem. 
For  ever  and  for  evermore. 

The  Star,  the  Star  of  Bethlehem' 

There  is  a  hymn,  written  by  Dr.  Andrew  Reed, 
commencing,  "There  is  an  hour  when  I  must  part." 
This  hymn  was  recited  to  Dr.  Reed,  at  his  own  re- 
quest, when  he  was  approaching  his  end  :  after  listen- 
ing to  it,  he  said,  "That  hymn  I  wrote  at  Geneva:  it 
has  brought  comfort  to  many,  and  now  it  brings  com- 
fort to  me." 

Andrew  Reed  is  a  name  deservedly  honored  in  the 
churches ;  alike  for  his  eminent  services  as  a  philan- 
thropist, an  author,  and  a  successful  minister  of  the 
gospel.  Few  men  have  accomplished  so  much  for  the 
poor  and  the  distressed  as  he,  in  the  establishment  of 
no  less  than  five  great  national  benevolent  institutions 
in  England  ;  and  who  shall  compute  the  amount  of 
spiritual  benefaction  his  protracted  ministry  has  con- 
ferred? He  was  born  in  London,  1787,  and  died  in 
1862.  He  visited  this  country,  in  company  with  Dr. 
Matheson,  as  a  deputation  from  the  Congregational 
Union  of  England  to  the  Churches  in  America,  in 
1834 '  ^"*^  during  his  stay  he  received  the  diploma  of 
D.D.  from  Yale  College.  He  published  several  theo- 
logical works,  also  the  narrative  of  his  official  "Visit 
to  the  American  Churches,"  and  his  popular  work, 
"No  Fiction." 

Frederika  Bremer,  the  Swedish  authoress,  is  the 
writer  of  these  vigorous  lines :  the  translation  is  by 
Mary  Howitt. 

Cheek  grow  pale,  but  heart  be  vigorous  ; 
Body  fall,  but  soul  have  peace  ; 

Welcome,  pain,  thou  searcher  rigorous  ! 
Slay  me,  but  my  faith  increase. 


390  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Sin,  o'er  sense  so  softly  stealing; 

Doubt,  that  would  my  strength  impair, — 
Hence  at  once  from  life  and  feeling ! 

Now  my  cross  I  gladly  bear. 

Up,  my  soul !  with  clear  sedateness 

Read  Heaven's  law,  writ  bright  and  broad; 

Up  !  a  sacrifice  to  greatness, 
Truth,  and  goodness,  —  up  to  God  ! 

Up  to  labor !  from  thee  shaking 

Off  the  bonds  of  sloth,  be  brave ! 
Give  thyself  to  prayer  and  waking ; 

Toil  some  fainting  soul  to  save. 

Sir  R.  Grant,  who  was  British  Governor  of  Bombay, 
died  in  1834.  He  wrote  some  impressive  and  stirring 
Christian  lyrics;  amongst  them,  his  "Litany,"  "Sa- 
viour !  when  in  dust  to  Thee,  low  we  bend  the  ador- 
ing knee,"  "When  gathering  clouds  around  I  view," 
and  "O  Saviour  !  whose  mercy,  severe  in  its  kindness," 
are  great  favorites. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  poems  is  "The 
Brooklet:"  — 

Sweet  brooklet,  ever  gliding, 
Now  high  the  mountain  riding, 
The  lone  vale  now  dividing, 

Whither  away  ? 
"  With  pilgrim  course  I  flow, 
Or  in  summer's  scorching  glow, 
Or  o'er  moonless  wastes  of  snow : 

Nor  stop  nor  stay  ; 
For,  oh,  by  high  behest,  to  a  bright  abode  of  rest, 
In  my  parent  Ocean's  breast, 

I  hasten  away  !  " 

Many  a  dark  morass, 
Many  a  craggy  mass. 
Thy  feeble  force  must  pass ; 
Yet,  yet  delay! 


LATER   ENGLISH.  39I 

"  Though  the  marsh  be  dire  and  deep 
Though  the  crag  be  stern  and  steep, 
On,  on  my  course  must  sweep : 

I  may  not  stay ; 
For,  oh,  be  it  east  or  west. 
To  a  home  of  glorious  rest. 
In  the  bright  sea's  boundless  breast, 

I  hasten  away  !  " 

The  warbhng  bowers  beside  thee. 
The  laughing  flowers  that  hide  thee, 
With  soft  accord  they  chide  thee,  — 

Sweet  brooklet,  stay ! 
"  I  taste  of  the  fragrant  flowers, 
I  respond  to  the  warbling  bowers, 
And  sweetly  they  charm  the  hours 

Of  my  winding  way ; 
But  ceaseless  still  in  quest 
Of  that  everlasting  rest, 
In  my.parent's  boundless  breast, 

I  hasten  away  !  " 

Knowest  thou  that  dread  abyss  ? 
Is  it  a  scene  of  bliss  ? 
Oh,  rather  cling  to  this,  — 

Sweet  brooklet,  stay ! 
«  Oh,  who  shall  fitly  tell 
What  wonders  there  may  dwell  ? 
That  world  of  mystery  well 

Might  strike  dismay ; 
But  I  know  'tis  my  parent's  breast ; 
There  held  I  must  needs  be  blest ; 
And  with  joy  to  that  promised  rest, 

I  hasten  away  !  " 

That  was  a  strange  crisis  in  the  life-story  of  the 
American  missionary  to  Burmah.  Two  unbelieving 
friends  pursue  their  travels  hither  and  thither,  and, 
seemingly  by  the  merest  accident,  cross  each  other's 
path,  or  rather  meet,  but  meet  unconsciously,  and, 


392  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

unknown  to  each  other,  occupying  adjoining  cham- 
bers,—  the  one  to  die,  the  other  to  be  awakened,  by 
that  death,  out  of  his  unbelieving  reverie,  and  to  seek 
a  better  preparation  for  both  living  and  dying  than  a 
sceptical  philosophy  could  give  him.  This  survivor 
was  Judson,  whose  earnest  piety  is  sufficiently  attested 
by  the  devotion  of  six-and-thirty  years  of  unwearied 
toil  to  the  salvation  of  idolatrous  Burmah. 

Dr.  Judson,  the  pioneer  missionary  to  the  East,  was, 
in  company  with  his  first  wife  and  others,  sent  forth 
to  India  by  the  American  Congregationalist  Board  of 
Commissioners.  On  their  way,  they  became  Bap- 
tists ;  and,  after  meeting  with  much  opposition  from 
the  East  India  Company,  they  at  length,  to  avoid  re- 
shipment  to  England,  sailed  from  Madras,  in  a  vessel 
bound  to  Rangoon.  Thus  they  reached  Burmah, 
where  it  was  found  that  Providence  had  a  great  work 
for  them  to  do.  Their  mission  was  commenced  about 
the  year  1815  ;  and  Judson  labored,  in  connection  with 
the  American  Baptists,  until  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Burmese  war  with  the  British,  in  1824;  when  Dr. 
Judson  was  seized  with  violence  by  the  natives,  cruelly 
bound,  and  cast  into  prison  ;  and  it  was  not  until  April, 
1826,  that  he  was  liberated.  During  his  painful  incar- 
ceration, like  Paul  and  Silas,  he  solaced  his  prison 
hours  with  Christian  songs.  It  was  during  this  period 
that  he  composed  the  paraphrase,  "  Our  Father,  God, 
who  art  in  heaven,"  which  is  said  to  be  comprised 
in  fewer  words  even  than  the  original  Greek.  He  was 
a  scholar  and  linguist,  having  translated  the  Bible  into 
Burmese,  and  constructed  a  Burmese  and  English 
Dictionary.  He  died  in  peace,  at  sea,  on  the  19th  of 
April,  1850,  aged  sixty-two  years;  his  remains  being 
committed  to  the  deep. 


NINTH     EVENING. 


MODERN   ENGLISH   AND   AMERICAN. 


^iM. 


NINTH     EVENING. 


MODERN  ENGLISH   AND  AMERICAN. 

TD  YRON,  next  in  the  order  of  time,  blazed,  comet- 
-*-^  like,  on  the  literary  hemisphere  ;  and  for  his  poetic 
productions  received  from  his  publisher  not  less  than 
fifteen  thousand  pounds  sterling,  and  a  revenue  of 
popular  applause.  But  he  was  a  misanthropic  man, 
—  at  issue  with  himself,  with  his  home,  and  the  world 
at  large.  As  England  looked  to  him,  so  he  looked  to 
her,  as  his  last,  sad  verses,  written  at  Missolonghi, 
testify  :  — 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf ; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone  ; 

The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone  ! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone,  as  some  volcanic  isle. 

Referring  to  Byron's  writings.  Professor  H.  Reed 
remarks:  "Never  had  our  poetry  been  so  profaned. 
There  had  been  one  phase  of  infidelity  with  Boling- 
broke  and  his  disciples,  and  another  with  Paine  and 
his  crew  ;  but  the  most  insidious  was  that  which  came 
from  the  bright,  dark  fancy  of  Byron  !  " 

Three  things,  at  least,  are  chargeable  against  the 
seductive  verse  of  Byron,  —  its  direct  atheistical 
tendency,    its  moral  depreciation  of  women,   and   its 


39^  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

glorifying  vice  with  the  attributes  of  virtue.  And  yet 
passages  of  the  highest  poetry  can  be  found  through- 
out his  writings ;  but  they  have  been  justly  compared 
to  the  crown  of  a  volcano,  "  glistening  with  brilliant 
sunshine  amid  yawning  rents  of  inconceivable  dark- 
ness." 

Byron  found  a  faithful  friend  in  Scott,  who,  on  one 
occasion,  had  the  moral  courage  to  admonish  him 
against  his  erratic  course.  "Would  you  have  me  turn 
Methodist?"  said  Byron.  "  No,"  was  the  reply:  "I 
cannot  conceive  of  your  being  a  Methodist ;  but  you 
might  be  a  cathoHc  Christian."  Byron  seems  to  have 
entertained  the  sincerest  respect  for  his  friend,  if  not 
for  his  counsel.  How  little  Byron  knew,  when  he 
shrank  from  what  he  thought  to  be  Scott's  recommen- 
dation of  Methodism,  that  a  Methodist  preacher  would 
be  honored  as  more  than  his  equal  in  true  "  Hebrew 
Melodies."  And  how  little  Scott  thought,  when  he 
found  himself  arrested  by  Wesley's  preaching  in  Kelso 
churchyard,  that  the  name  of  one  of  Wesley's  itinerant 
companions  would  stand  in  the  lists  of  immortality 
above  his  own,  on  the  line  of  Israelitish  hymnists. 

An  incident  in  the  life  of  Lord  Byron,  which  oc- 
curred at  Falmouth  in  the  year  1809,  brought  the  poet 
and  a  Baptist  minister,  Mr.  Shepherd,  unexpectedly 
together ;  who  were  until  then  unknown  to  each  other. 
Upon  the  poet  inquiring  if  he  could  be  accommodated 
with  some  novel,  the  minister  replied,  "  I  have  a  book 
here  that  might  interest  you,  and  one  that  I  am  sure 
will  not  only  refine  your  taste,  but  do  your  heart  good  : 
it  is  the  Bible."  The  poet  started  in  astonishment; 
and  soon  his  gayety  of  manner  was  changed  into  an 
expression  of  thoughtful  gravity,  while  his  companion 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  397 

gave  him  some  lessons  on  the  Bible,  and  from  the 
Bible.  "  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  your 
name,  sir,"  said  the  host,  as  his  visitor  rose  to  depart; 
"but  I  pray  God  to  bless  you."  "  Thank  3'ou,"  was 
his  parting  reply  :  "  my  name  is  George  Lord  Byron ; 
good-by."  It  was  the  future  poet  on  his  way  to  Lis- 
bon ;  and  who  knows  how  far  the  quiet  minister's 
lesson  "on  the  Bible  and  from  the  Bible"  influenced 
his  after  thought  and  feeling,  as  the  author  of  "  He- 
brew Melodies"?  Was  it  the  echo  of  that  worthy  man's 
touching  appeal  that  sometimes  in  after  days,  and  in 
other  climes,  made  him  "silent  and  solemn"?  —  as 
when  he  said,  in  the  presence  of  his  friend  Shelley  : 
"  Here  is  a  little  book  which  somebody  has  sent  me 
about  Christianity,  that  has  made  me  very  uncomfort- 
able :  the  reasoning  seems  to  me  very  strong,  the 
proofs  are  very  staggering.  I  don't  think  you  can 
answer  it,  Shelley:  at  least,  I  am  sure  I  can't;  and, 
what  is  more,  I  don't  wish  it."  *  Alas,  that  he  did 
not  make  a  better  use  of  his  convictions  !  But  let  us 
turn  from  the  regretful  memory  of  the  poet's  personal 
errors  to  some  of  his  beautiful  pictorial  utterances. 
These  include  "  The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib," 
"  Hebrew  Melodies,"  "  Vision  of  Belshazzar,"  in 
which  he  has  so  admirably  caught  the  spirit  of  the 
original. 

Byron's  "Vision  of  Belshazzar"  is  wonderfully  pic- 
torial and  brilliant.  We  need  scarcely  repeat  it,  how- 
ever;  for  who  has  not  read  it? 

The  king  was  on  his  throne,  the  satraps  thronged  the  hall : 
A  thousand  bright  lamps  shone  o'er  that  high  festival. 
A  thousand  cups  of  gold,  in  Judah  deemed  divine  ; 
Jehovah's  vessels  hold  the  godless  heathen's  wine  ! 

*  Christophers'  Hymn!>. 


398  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall,  the  fingers  of  a  hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall,  and  wrote  as  if  on  sand ; 
The  fingers  of  a  man,  a  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran,  and  traced  them  like  a  wand. 
The  monarch  saw  and  shook,  and  bade  no  more  rejoice ; 
All  bloodless  waxed  his  look,  and  tremulous  his  voice:  — 
"  Let  tlie  men  of  lore  appear,  the  wisest  of  the  earth, 
And  expound  the  words  of  fear  which  mar  our  royal  mirth," 

What  a  grand  passage  is  the  following !  — 

Between  two  worlds  life  hovers  like  a  star, 

'Twixt  night  and  morn,  upon  the  horizon's  verge : 
How  little  do  we  know  that  which  we  are  ! 

How  less  what  we  may  be  !     The  eternal  surge 
Of  time  and  tide  rolls  on,  and  bears  afar 

Our  bubbles  :  as  the  old  burst,  new  emerge, 
Lashed  from  the  foam  of  ages  ;  while  the  graves 

Of  empires  heave  but  like  some  passing  waves. 

Another  of  his  fine  poems  is  "  The  Destruction  of 
Sennacherib's  Army  :  "  — 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold. 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea. 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen ; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  uplifted,  the  trumpets  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword. 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord  ! 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  399 

How  sublime  is  his  apostrophe  to  the  Ocean !  — 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin ;  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ;  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  time. 
Calm  or  convulsed,  in  breeze  or  gale  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving ;  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime, 
The  image  of  eternity,  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  :  each  zone 
Obeys  thee  ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

Keble,  the  popular  author  of  the  "  Christian  Year," 
has  enriched  our  sacred  literature  by  his  Muse. 
Although  expressly  written  for  the  service  of  the 
Episcopal  Church,  these  sacred  lyrics  have  found 
many  admirers  among  other  communions.  We  cull 
a  few  brilliants  from  his  collection :  they  need  no  set- 
ting. 

Why  should  we  faint  and  fear  to  live  alone. 
Since  all  alone,  so  Heaven  has  willed,  we  die  ? 

Nor  even  the  tenderest  heart,  and  next  our  own. 
Knows  half  the  reasons  why  we  smile  or  sigh  ? 

Each  in  his  hidden  sphere  of  joy  or  woe 
Our  hermit  spirits  dwell,  and  range  apart; 

Our  eyes  see  all  around,  in  gloom  or  glow. 

Hues  of  their  own,  fresh  borrowed  from  the  heart. 

"  The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness,  and  a  stranger  doth  not  intermeddle  with  its 
joy."  —  Frov.  xiv.  jo. 


400  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

FLOWERS. 

Sweet  nurslings  of  the  vernal  skies, 
Bathed  in  soft  airs,  and  fed  with  dew, 

What  more  than  magic  in  you  lies 
To  fill  the  heart's  fond  view  ? 

In  childhood's  sports  companions  gay. 

In  sorrow,  on  life's  downward  way, 

How  soothing  !  in  our  last  decay, 
Memorials  prompt  and  true. 

Relics  ye  are  of  Eden's  bowers, 

As  pure,  as  fragrant,  and  as  fair. 
As  when  ye  crowned  the  sunshine  hours 

Of  happy  wanderers  there. 

His  voice  is  hushed,  but  his  rare  and  beautiful  mel- 
odies will  perpetuate  his  memory  as  long  as  the 
"  service  of  song  "  shall  minister  solace  to  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  sorrow.  It  was  but  recently  that  he  left 
the  ranks  of  the  Church  Militant  to  join  the  hymnists 
of  the  "  upper  sanctuary;"  and  well  has  it  been  re- 
marked, that  those  who  kept  him  company  little 
thought  that  he  would  so  soon  realize  the  consoling 
prophecy  of  his  own  verse. 

Then,  fainting  soul,  arise  and  sing ; 
Mount,  but  be  sober  on  the  wing: 
Mount  up,  for  Heaven  is  won  by  prayer ; 
Be  sober,  for  thou  art  not  there. 
Till  death  the  weary  spirit  free. 
Thy  God  hath  said  'tis  good  for  thee 
To  walk  by  faith,  and  not  by  sight : 

Take  it  on  trust  a  little  while  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  read  the  mystery  right. 

In  the  full  sunshine  of  His  smile  ! 

Uean  Milman  was  born  in  1791,  was  educated  at 
Eton  and  Oxford,  in  182 1  was  appointed  to  the  pro- 
fessorship of  poetry  in  the  University  of  Oxford,  and 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  4OI 

m  1849  became  Dean  of  St.  Paul's.  His  "Fall  of 
Jerusalem"  is  one  of  his  noted  poems.  We  subjoin 
two  extracts  :  — 

When  God  came  down  from  Heaven,  the  Living  God  j 

What  signs  and  wonders  marked  His  stately  way  ? 
Brake  out  the  winds  in  music  where  He  trod  ? 

Shone  o'er  the  heavens  a  brighter,  softer  day  ? 
The  dumb  began  to  speak,  the  blind  to  see. 

And  the  lame  leaped,  and  pain  and  paleness  fled ; 
The  mourner's  sunken  eye  grew  bright  with  glee, 

And  from  the  toiiib  awoke  the  wondering  dead  ! 
When  God  went  back  to  Heaven,  the  Living  God  ! 

Rode  He  the  heavens  upon  a  fiery  car  ? 
Waved  seraph  wings  along  His  glorious  road  ? 

Stood  still  to  wonder  each  bright  wandering  star  ? 
Upon  the  cross  He  hung,  and  bowed  His  head. 

And  prayed  for  them  that  smote,  and  them  that  curst ; 
And  drop  by  drop  His  slow  life-blood  was  shed, 

And  His  last  hour  of  suffering  was  His  worst ! 


What  means  yon  blaze  on  high .'' 

The  empyrean  sky. 
Like  the  rich  veil  of  some  proud  fane,  is  rending ; 

I  see  the  star-paved  land 

Where  all  the  angels  stand. 
Even  to  the  highest  height  in  burning  rows  ascending  ; 

Some  with  their  wings  dispread, 

And  bowed  the  stately  head. 
As  on  some  mission  of  God's  love  departing, 
Like  flames  from  midnight  conflagration  starting  ; 
Behold  !  the  appointed  messengers  are  they, 
And  nearest  earth  they  wait  to  waft  our  souls  away. 

Hood,  although  generally  known  by  his  sparkling 

wit  and  humorous  poems,  has  yet  given  us  some  of 

the  most  deeply  pathetic  and  impassioned  stanzas  in 

the  language.     He  was  born   in  1798,  and   died  in 

26 


402  EVENENGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

1845.     His  variously   gifted   pen   touched   alike   the 
springs  of  laughter  and  of  tears. 

RUTH. 

She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 
On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripened ;  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born,  — 
Like  red  poppies  grown  w^th  com. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright ; 
And  her  hat  with  shady  brim. 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim : 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks. 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure,  I  said.  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  should'st  but  glean; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown,  and  come. 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

Here  is  another  exquisite  little  poem  of  his  :  — • 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night,  her  breathing  soft 

and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life  kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 
So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak,  so  slowly  moved  about. 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers  to  eke  her  living  out. 
Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears,  our  fears  our  hopes  belied  ; 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept,  and  sleeping  when  she  died. 
For  when  the  morn  came,  dim  and  sad,  and  chill  with  early  showers, 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed, — she  had  another  morn  than  ours  ! 

Moir  (better  known  as  the  "  Delta "  of  "  Black- 
wood") was  born  1798,  and  died  in  1851.  This  busy 
surgeon   of   Musselburgh   found   time  to   cultivate   a 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  4O3 

poetic  genius  of  the  first  order.  He  wrote  among 
other  poems  one  remarkable  for  its  touching  pathos 
and  exquisite  feeling,  entitled  "  Casa  Wappy"  (the 
self-conferred  pet-name  of  an  infant  son  of  the  poet, 
snatched  away  after  a  brief  illness).  Here  are  a  few 
of  the  stanzas  :  — 

And  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home,  our  fond,  dear  boy,  — 
Tlie  reahns  where  sorrow  dare  not  come,  where  life  is  joy? 
Pure  at  thy  death,  as  at  thy  birth, 
Thy  spirit  caught  no  taint  from  earth  : 
Even  by  its  bliss  we  mete  our  dearth,  Casa  Wappy ! 

Despair  was  in  our  last  farewell,  as  closed  thine  eye ; 
Tears  of  our  anguish  may  not  tell  when  thou  didst  die  ; 

Words  may  not  paint  our  grief  for  thee, 

Sighs  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 

Of  our  unfathomed  agony,  Casa  Wappy  ! 

Thou  wert  a  vision  of  delight  to  bless  us  given  ; 

Beauty  embodied  to  our  sight,  a  type  of  heaven ; 
So  dear  to  us  thou  wert,  thou  art 
Even  less  thine  own  self  than  a  part 
Of  mine  and  of  thy  mother's  heart,  Casa  Wappy ! 

Thy  bright,  brief  day  knew  no  decline,  'twas  cloudless  joy ; 

Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thine,  beloved  boy ! 
This  moon  beheld  thee  blithe  and  gay, 
That  found  thee  prostrate  in  decay, 
And  ere  a  third  shone,  clay  was  clay,  Casa  Wappy ! 

Gem  of  our  hearth,  our  household  pride,  earth's  undefiled  ! 

Could  love  have  saved,  thou  hadst  not  died,  our  dear,  sweet  child  ! 
Humbly  we  bow  to  Fate's  decree  ; 
Yet  had  we  hoped  that  time  should  see 
Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee,  Casa  Wappy ! 

The  nursery  shows  thy  pictured  wall,  thy  bat,  thy  bow. 
Thy  cloak  and  bonnet,  club  and  ball ;  but  where  art  thou  ? 


404  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

A  corner  holds  thine  empty  chair  ; 

Thy  playthings  idly  scattered  there, 

But  speak  to  us  of  our  despair,  Casa  Wappy ! 

Snows  muffled  earth  when  thou  didst  go,  in  life's  spring  bloom, 
Down  to  the  appointed  house  below,  —  the  silent  tomb  ! 

But  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree. 

The  cuckoo  and  the  "  busy  bee," 

Return,  but  with  them  bring  not  thee,  Casa  Wappy  ! 

'Tis  so :  but  can  it  be  (while  flowers  revive  again) 
Man's  doom,  in  death  that  we  and  ours  for  aye  remain  ? 
Oh !  can  it  be,  that  o'er  the  grave 
The  grass  renewed  should  yearly  wave. 
Yet  God  forget  our  child  to  save,  —  Casa  Wappy  ? 

It  cannot  be  :  for  were  it  so  thus  man  could  die, 

Life  were  a  mockery.  Thought  were  woe,  and  Truth  a  lie ; 

Heaven  were  a  coinage  of  the  brain. 

Religion  frenzy.  Virtue  vain, 

And  all  our  hopes  to  meet  again  Casa  Wappy ! 

The  late  Lord  Jeffrey,  in  writing  to  Moir,  said  ot 
his  domestic  verses :  "  I  cannot  resist  the  impulse 
of  thanking  you  with  all  my  heart  for  the  deep  grati- 
fication you  have  afforded  me,  and  the  soothing,  and 
I  hope  bettering,  emotions  which  you  have  excited. 
I  am  sure  that  what  you  have  written  is  more  genuine 
pathos  than  any  thing  almost  I  have  ever  read  in  verse, 
and  is  so  tender  and  true,  so  sweet  and  natural,  as  to 
make  all  lower  recommendations  indifferent," 

Knox,  a  Scottish  poet,  who  lived  from  1789  to  1825, 
wrote  some  splendid  lyrics,  —  "  verses  alive  with 
sacred  fire,  and  breathing  of  scriptural  simplicity  and 
tenderness."  The  feelings  of  the  young  poet's  heart, 
at  a  particular  crisis  of  his  family  history,  are  seen  in 
these  lines :  — 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  4O5 

Harp  of  Zion,  pure  and  holy,  pride  of  Judah's  eastern  land ! 
May  a  child  of  guilt  and  folly  strike  thee  with  a  feeble  hand  ? 
May  I   to  my  bosom  take  thee,  —  trembling  from  the  prophet's 

touch,  — 
And,  with  throbbing  heart,  awake  thee  to  the  strains   I  love  so 

much  ? 
I  have  loved  thy  thrilling  numbers  since  the  dawn  of  childhood's 

day ; 
Since  a  mother  soothed  my  slumbers  with  the  cadence  of  thy  lay ; 
Since  a  little  blooming  sister  clung  with  transport  round  my  knee, 
And  my  glowing  spirit  blessed  her,  with  a  blessing  caught  from 

thee ! 
Mother,  sister,  both  are  sleeping  where  no  heaving  hearts  respire. 
Whilst  the  eve  of  age  is  creeping  round  the  widowed  spouse  and 

sire. 
He  and  his,  amid  their  sorrow,  find  enjoyment  in  thy  strain  ; 
Harp  of  Zion,  let  me  borrow  comfort  from  thy  chords  again  ! 

This  same  Knox  was  the  author  of  that  exquisite 
poem  on  "  Mortality,"  which  the  late  President  Lincoln 
so  much  admired.     It  begins,  — 

Oh,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 
Like  a  fast-flitting  meteor,  a  fast-flying  cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave, — 
He  passes  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave  ! 

The  hand  of  the  king  who  the  sceptre  hath  borne, 
The  brow  of  the  priest  who  the  mitre  hath  worn, 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of  the  brave. 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  grave  ! 

The  saint  who  enjoyed  the  communion  of  heaven, 
The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unforgiven, 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just. 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust ! 

And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  and  the  song  and  the  dirge, 
Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon  surge  : 
From  the  gilded  saloon,  to  the  bier  and  the  shroud,  — 
Oh,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 


406  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

David  Gray,  a  self-taught  Scottish  peasant,  wrote 
this  fine  sonnet :  — 

Why  are  all  fair  things  at  their  death  the  fairest  ? 

Beauty  the  beautifullest  in  decay  ? 

Why  doth  rich  sunset  clothe  each  closing  day 
With  ever-new  apparelling  the  rarest  ? 

Why  are  the  sweetest  melodies  all  born 
Of  pain  and  sorrow  ?     Mourneth  not  the  dove, 
In  the  green  forest  gloom,  an  absent  love  ? 

Leaning  her  breast  against  the  cruel  thorn, 
Doth  not  the  nightingale,  poor  bird,  complain, 

And  integrate  her  uncontrollable  woe 
To  such  perfection,  that  to  hear  is  pain  ? 

Thus  Sorrow  and  Death  —  alone  realities  — 
Sweeten  their  ministration,  and  bestow 

On  troublous  life  a  relish  for  the  skies  ! 

Listen  to  Allan  Cunningham's  beautiful  lyric  tribute 
to  the  Sabbath  :  — 

Dear  is  the  hallowed  morn  to  me,  when  village  bells  awake  the  day, 
And,  by  their  sacred  minstrelsy,  call  me  from  earthly  cares  away. 
And  dear  to  me  the  winged  hour,  spent  in  thy  hallowed  courts,  O 

Lord! 
To  feel  devotion's  soothing  power,  and  catch  the  manna  of  Thy 

word. 

Oft  when  the  world,  with  iron  bands,  has  bound  me  in  its  six  days' 

chain. 
This  bursts  them,  like  the  strong  man's  hands,  and  lets  my  spirit 

loose  again. 

Go,  man  of  pleasure,  strike  the  lyre,  of  Sabbaths  broken  sing  the 

charms  ; 
Ours  are  the  prophet's  car  of  fire,  which  bears  us  :o  a  Father's 

arms  ! 

The  Scottish  poet,  Pollok,  has  something  of  Miltonic 
grandeur  in  much  of  his  verse.  Here  is  his  delinea- 
tion of  what  all  would  possess,  but  only  few  secure. — 
true  happiness :  — 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  4O7 

True  Happiness  had  no  localities, 

No  tones  provincial,  no  peculiar  garb. 

Where  Duty  went,  she  went,  with  Justice  went, 

And  went  with  Meekness,  Charity,  and  Love. 

Where'er  a  tear  was  dried,  a  wounded  heart 

Bound  up,  a  bruised  spirit  with  the  dew 

Of  sympathy  anointed,  or  a  pang 

Of  honest  suffering  soothed,  or  injury 

Repeated  oft,  as  oft  by  love  forgiven ; 

Where'er  an  evil  passion  was  subdued, 

Or  Virtue's  feeble  embers  fanned  ;  where'er 

A  sin  was  heartily  abjured  and  left ; 

Where'er  a  pious  act  was  done,  01  breathed 

A  pious  prayer,  or  wished  a  pious  wish, — 

There  was  a  high  and  holy  place,  a  spot 

Of  sacred  light,  a  most  religious  fane, 

Where  Happiness,  descending,  sat  and  smiled. 

Here  is  a  very  touching  and  beautiful  description 
of  a  dying  Christian  :  — 

The  dying  eye,  —  that  eye  alone  was  bright. 
And  brighter  grew,  as  nearer  death  approached  ; 

She  made  a  sign 
To  bring  her  babe  ;  'twas  brought,  and  by  her  placed. 
She  looked  upon  its  face,  that  neither  smiled. 
Nor  wept,  nor  knew  who  gazed  upon  't,  and  laid 
Her  hand  upon  its  little  breast,  and  sought 
For  it,  with  look  that  seemed  to  penetrate 
The  heavens,  unutterable  blessings,  —  such 
As  God  to  dying  parents  only  granted. 
For  infants  left  behind  them  in  the  world. 
"God  keep  my  child,"  we  heard  her  say,  and  heard 
No  more  :  the  Angel  of  the  Covenant 
Was  come,  and,  faithful  to  His  promise,  stood 
Prepared  to  walk  with  her  through  death's  dark  vale. 
And  now  her  eyes  grew  bright  and  brighter  still,  — 
Too  bright  for  ours  to  look  upon,  suffused 
With  many  tears,  —  and  closed  without  a  cloud  ! 
They  set,  —  as  sets  the  morning  star,  which  goes 


408  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Not  down  behind  the  darkened  west,  nor  hides 
Obscured  among  the  tempests  of  the  sky, 
But  melts  away  into  the  light  of  heaven  ! 

Pollok,  who  is  known  to  us  by  his  "  Course  of  Time," 
was  born  in  1799,  and  died  in  1827,  at  the  early  age 
of  twenty-seven  years.  His  too  ardent  devotion  to 
study  superinduced  consumption,  which  soon  laid  him 
low.  He  had  only  just  completed  his  great  poem  and 
commenced  his  public  ministry,  when  he  was  removed 
to  the  south  of  England,  for  the  benefit  of  his  health, 
where,  alas  !  he  died.  In  a  letter  to  his  brother  about 
this  time  (1826),  he  says,  "It  is  with  much  pleasure 
that  I  am  now  able  to  tell  you  that  I  have  finished  my 
poem.  Since  I  wrote  to  you  last,  I  have  written  about 
three  thousand  five  hundred  verses ;  which  is  consid- 
erably more  than  a  hundred  every  successive  day. 
This,  you  will  see,  was  extraordinary  expedition  to 
be  continued  so  long;  and  I  neither  can  nor  wish 
to  ascribe  it  to  any  thing  but  an  extraordinary  mani- 
festation of  Divine  goodness.  Although  some  nights 
I  was  on  the  border  of  fever,  I  rose  every  morning 
equally  fresh,  without  one  twitch  of  headache ;  and, 
with  all  the  impatience  of  a  lover,  hasted  to  my  study. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  tenth  book,  —  for  the  whole 
consists  of  ten  books, — where  the  subject  was  over- 
whelmingly great,  and  where  I,  indeed,  seemed  to  write 
from  immediate  inspiration,  I  felt  the  body  beginning  to 
give  way.  ...  I  am  convinced  that  summer  is  the  best 
season  for  great  mental  exertion ;  because  the  heat 
promotes  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  the  stagnation 
of  which  is  the  great  cause  of  misery  to  cogitative 
men.  The  serenity  of  mind  which  I  have  possessed 
is  astonishing.     Exalted  on  my  native  mountains,  and 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN. 


409 


writing  often  on  the  top  of  the  very  highest  of  them, 
I  proceeded,  from  day  to  day,  as  if  I  had  been  in  a 
world  in  which  there  was  neither  sin  nor  sickness  nor 
poverty." 

Pollok,  like  Kirke  White,  adds  one  more  to  the  list 
of  great  minds  too  early  quenched  by  the  excessive 
ardor  of  their  intellectual  pursuits.  He  has  been 
described  as  tall,  well-proportioned,  of  a  dark  com- 
plexion, "  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought," 
with  deep-set  eyes,  heavy  eyebrows,  and  black,  bushy 
hair.  "A  smothered  light  burned  in  his  dark  orbs, 
which  flashed  with  a  meteor  brilliancy,  whenever  he 
spoke  with  enthusiasm  and  energy." 

Motherwell,  the  "melancholy"  Scottish  bard,  who 
died  in  1835,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-eight,  has  writ- 
ten a  sweet  poem,  "The  water,  the  water  !"  from  which 
we  give  an  extract :  — 

The  water,  the  water  !  the  dear  and  blessed  thing, 
That  all  day  fed  the  little  flowers,  on  its  banks  blossoming : 
The  water,  the  water !  that  murmured  in  my  ear 
Hymns  of  a  saint-like  purity,  that  angels  well  might  hear ; 
And  whispered  in  the  gates  of  heaven, 
How  meek  a  pilgrim  had  been  shriven. 
The  water,  the  water !  the  mournful,  pensive  tone 
That  whispered  to  my  heart,  how  soon  this  weary  life  was  done. 
The  water,  the  water  !  that  rolled  so  bright  and  free, 
And  bade  me  mark  how  beautiful  was  its  soul's  purity ; 
And  how  it  glanced  to  heaven  its  wave, 
As,  wandering  on,  it  sought  its  grave  ! 

We  cull  the  following  poetic  flowers  from  the  pen 
of  the  late  Bishop  Doane,  of  New  Jersey:  — 

EVENING. 

Softly  now  the  light  of  day 
Fades  upon  my  sight  away; 
Free  from  care,  from  labor  free, 
Lord !  I  would  commune  with  thee. 


410  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Thou,  whose  all-pervading  eye 
Naught  escapes,  without,  within, 

Pardon  each  infirmity. 
Open  fault  and  secret  sin. 

Thou  who,  sinless,  yet  hast  known 

All  of  man's  infirmity  ; 
Then,  from  Thy  eternal  throne, 

Jesus,  look  with  pitying  eye  ! 

THE   christian's   DEATH. 

Lift  not  thou  the  wailing  voice, 

Weep  not,  'tis  a  Christian  dieth, — 
Up,  where  blessed  saints  rejoice. 

Ransomed  now,  tlie  spirit  flieth  ; 
High,  in  heaven's  own  light,  she  dwelleth, 
Full  the  song  of  triumph  swelleth  ; 
Freed  from  earth,  and  earthly  failing, 
Lift  for  her  no  voice  of  wailing. 

THE  BANNER  OF  THE  CROSS. 

Fling  out  the  Banner !  let  it  float  skyward  and  seaward,  high  and 

wide ; 
The  sun,  that  hghts  its  shining  folds,  the  cross  on  which  the  Saviour 

died. 
FHng  out  the  Banner !  angels  bend,  in  anxious  silence,  o'er  the  sign. 
And  vainly  seek  to  comprehend  the  wonder  of  the  Love  divine  ! 
Fling  out  the  Banner !  heathen  lands  shall  see,  from  far,  the  glorious 

sight, 
And  nations,  crowding  to  be  born,  baptize  their  spirits  in  its  light. 

What  a  beautiful  spirit  of  Christian  resignation 
breatlies  throughout  the  last  lines  composed  by  Mrs. 
Hemans  ! — the  "Sabbath  Sonnet,"  written  a  few  days 
prior  to  her  decease  :  — 

How  many  blessed  groups  this  hour  are  bending 
Through  England's  primrose  meadow-paths  their  way, 
Towards  spire  and  tower,  midst  shadowing  elms  ascending, 
Whence  the  sweet  chimes  proclaim  the  hallowed  day. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  4II 

The  halls  from  old  heroic  ages  gray 
Pour  their  fair  children  forth  ;  and  hamlets  low, 
With  whose  thick  orchard-blooms  the  soft  winds  play, 
Send  out  their  inmates  in  a  happy  flow, 
Like  a  freed  vernal  stream.     I  may  not  tread 
With  them  those  pathways,  —  to  the  feverish  bed 
Of  sickness  bound  ;  yet,  O  my  God  !  I  bless 
Thy  mercy,  that  with  Sabbath  peace  hath  filled 
My  chastened  heart,  and  all  its  throbbings  stilled 
To  one  deep  calm  of  lowliest  thankfulness  ! 

In  less  than  one  month  after  giving  utterance  to  the 
above  "soul-sonnet,"  Felicia  Hemans  passed  away; 
and  her  memorial,  in  St.  Ann's  Church,  Dublin,  has 
inscribed  over  her  mortal  remains  these  fitting  stanzas, 
from  her  own  pen  :  — 

Calm  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 

Fair  spirit,  rest  thee  now. 
Even  while  with  us  thy  footsteps  trod, 

His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 
Dust  to  its  narrow  house  beneath, 

Soul  to  its  home  on  high  ! 
They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death, 
No  more  may  fear  to  die. 

This  gifted  writer  excelled  as  much  in  her  linguistic 
skill  as  in  her  poetical  productions ;  having  rendered 
into  English  verse  many  pieces  from  eminent  Conti- 
nental writers.  Her  life,  overcharged  with  cares  and 
privations,  and  neglected  by  her  natural  protector, 
succumbed,  in  the  unequal  strife,  in  1835. 

The  Rev.  W.  Crosswell,  of  Boston,  wrote  several 
beautiful  sacred  lyrics,  which,  like  those  of  Bisliop 
Coxe,  of  New  York,  are  exquisitely  musical,  brilliant, 
and  stirring.     Here  are  some  extracts  :  — 

I  saw  them  in  their  synagogue,  as  in  their  ancient  day. 
And  never  from  my  memory  the  scene  shall  fade  away ; 
For  dazzling  on  my  vision  still  the  latticed  galleries  shine 
With  Israel's  loveliest  daughters,  in  their  beauty  half  divine 


412  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

It  is  the  holy  Sabbath  eve  :  the  solitary  light 

Sheds,  mingled  with  the  hues  of  day,  a  lustre  nothing  bright; 

On  swarthy  brow  and  piercing  glance  it  falls  with  saddening  tinge, 

And  dimly  gilds  the  Pharisee's  phylacteries  and  fringe. 

The  two-leaved  doors  slide  slow  apart  before  the  Eastern  screen, 

As  rise  the  Hebrew  harmonies,  with  chanted  prayers  between ; 

And  'mid  the  tissued  veils  disclosed,  of  many  a  gorgeous  dye. 

Enveloped  in  their  jewelled  scarfs  the  sacred  records  He. 

Robed  in  his  sacerdotal  vest,  a  silvery-headed  man, 

With  voice  of  solemn  cadence,  o'er  the  backward  letters  ran  ; 

And  often  yet,  methinks,  I  see  the  glow  and  power  that  sate 

Upon  his  face,  as  forth  he  spread  the  roll  immaculate. 

And  fervently,  that  hour,  I  prayed  that  from  the  mighty  scroll 

Its  light,  in  burning  characters,  might  break  on  every  soul ; 

That  on  their  hardened  hearts  the  veil  might  be  no  longer  dark, 

But  be  for  ever  rent  in  twain,  like  that  before  the  ark ; 

For  yet  the  tenfold  film  shall  fall,  O  Judah  !  from  thy  sight, 

And  every  eye  be  purged  to  read  thy  testimonies  right,  — 

When  thou,  with  all  Messiah's  signs  in  Christ  distinctly  seen, 

Shalt,  by  Jehovah's  nameless  name,  invoke  the  Nazarene ! 

Rev.  Dr.  Crosswell's  death  was  remarkable :  while 
engaged  in  the  public  Sabbath  afternoon  service,  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  last  collect,  instead  of  rising  from 
his  knees,  he  sank  upon  the  floor,  and  shortly  after- 
wards expired. 

Among  our  American  poets,  we  think  the  late  George 
W.  Bethune  well  deserves  a  place  of  honor.  What 
glad  sunshine  gleams  through  the  following  musical 
stanzas :  — 

I  love  to  sing  when  I  am  glad,  —  song  is  the  echo  of  my  gladness  : 
I  love  to  sing  when  I  am  sad,  till  song  makes  sweet  my  very  sad- 
ness : 
'Tis  pleasant  time  when  voices  chime  to  some  sweet  rhyme  in  con- 
cert only ; 
And  song  to  me  is  company,  good  company,  when  I  am  lonely. 
Whene'er  I  greet  the  morning  light,  my  song  goes  forth  in  thankful 

numbers ; 
And  'mid  the  sliadows  of  the  night  I  sing  to  me  my  welcome  slum- 
bers: 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN. 


413 


My  heart  is  stirred  by  each  glad  bird  whose  notes  are  heard  in  sum- 
mer bowers  ; 

And  song  gives  birth  to  friendly  mirth  around  the  hearth  in  wintry 
hours. 

Man  first  learned  song  in  Paradise,  from  the  bright  angels  o'er  him 
singing ; 

And  in  our  home  above  the  skies  glad  anthems  are  for  ever  ringing. 

God  lends  His  ear,  well  pleased  to  hear  the  songs  that  cheer  his 
children's  sorrow ; 

Till  day  shall  break,  and  we  shall  wake  where  love  will  make  unfad- 
ing morrow. 

Then  let  me  sing,  while  yet  I  may,  like  him  God  loved,  —  the  sweet- 
toned  Psalmist, 

Who  found  in  harp  and  holy  lay  the  charm  that  keeps  the  spirit 
calmest ; 

For  sadly  here  I  need  the  cheer,  while  sinful  fear  with  promise 
blendeth : 

Oh,  how  I  long  to  join  the  throng  who  sing  the  song  that  never 
endeth ! 

On  one  occasion,  when  in  his  pulpit  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  his  congregation,  he  pencilled  off  on  a  scrap 
of  paper  the  lines  commencing,  "  Oh  for  the  happy 
hour  ! "  On  the  da}--  preceding  his  death,  which  took 
place  at  Florence,  Italy,  in  1862,  he  wrote  some  affect- 
ing lines,  of  which  the  following  are  the  commence- 
ment :  — 

When  time  seems  short,  and  death  is  near, 
And  I  am  pressed  by  doubt  and  fear. 
And  sins,  an  overflowing  tide, 
Assail  my  peace  on  every  side, — 
This  thought  my  refuge  still  shall  be, 
I  know  the  Saviour  died  for  me  ! 

The  beauty  of  the  following  poem,  by  Bethune,  will 
be  recognized  by  all  who  read  it :  — 


414  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

I  am  alone  ;  and  yet  in  the  still  solitude  there  is  a  rush 

Around  me,  as  were  met  a  crowd  of  viewless  wings  :   I  hear  a  gush 
Of  uttered  harmonies,  —  heaven  meeting  earth, 
Making  it  to  rejoice  with  holy  mirth. 

Ye  winged  mysteries,  sleeping  before  my  spirit's  conscious  eye, 

Beckoning  me  to  arise,  and  go  forth  from  my  very  self,  and  fly 

With  you  far  in  the  unknown,  unseen  immense 

Of  worlds  beyond  our  sphere,  —  what  are  ye  ?  whence  ? 

Ye  eloquent  voices,  now  soft  as  breathings  of  a  distant  flute, 

Now  strong  as  when  rejoices  the  trumpet  in  the  victory  and  pursuit: 

Strange  are  ye,  yet  familiar,  as  ye  call 

My  soul  to  wake  from  earth's  sense  and  its  thrall. 

I  know  you  now :  I  see,  with  more  than  natural  light,  ye  are  the 
good, 

The  wise  departed  ;  ye  are  come  from  heaven  to  claim  your  brother- 
hood 

With  mortal  brother,  struggling  in  the  strife 

And  chains  which  once  were  yours  in  this  sad  life. 

Mrs.  Barrett  Browning's  religious  poetry  abounds 
with  splendid  metaphors  and  high  aspirations,  ex- 
pressed with  masterly  power :  in  some  instances,  the 
language  may  seem  somewhat  turgid  and  obscure,  but 
the  soul  of  true  poetry  is  infused  through  all.  Here 
are  two  fine  passages  :  — 

What  are  we  set  on  earth  for  ?    Say  to  toil ! 

Nor  seek  to  leave  thy  tending  of  the  vines 

For  all  the  heat  o'  the  sun,  till  it  declines, 

And  death's  mild  curfew  shall  from  work  assoil. 

God  did  anoint  thee  with  His  odorous  oil 

To  wrestle,  not  to  reign  ;  and  He  assigns 

All  thy  tears,  ever  like  pure  crystallines, 

Unto  thy  fellows,  working  the  same  soil, 

To  wear  for  amulets.     So  others  shall 

Take  patience,  labor,  to  their  heart  and  hand. 

From  thy  hand  and  thy  heart  and  thy  brave  cheer, 

And  God's  grace  fructify  through  thee  to  all ! 

The  least  flower  with  a  brimming  cup  may  stand 

And  share  its  dew-drop  with  another  near. 


MODERN   ENGLISH    AND  AMERICAN.  415 


Speak  low  to  me,  my  Saviour,  low  and  sweet, 
From  out  the  hallelujahs,  sweet  and  low, 
Lest  I  should  fear  and  fall,  and  miss  thee  so, 
Who  art  not  missed,  by  any  that  entreat. 
Speak  to  me  as  to  Mary  at  Thy  feet ; 
And  if  no  precious  gums  my  hands  bestow, 
Let  my  tears  drop,  like  amber,  while  I  go 
In  search  of  Thy  divinest  voice,  complete 
In  humanest  affection  ;  thus,  in  sooth. 
To  lose  the  sense  of  losing !     As  a  child, 
Whose  song-bird  seeks  the  wood  for  evermore, 
Is  sung  to,  in  its  stead,  by  mother's  mouth  ; 
Till  sinking  on  her  breast,  love  reconciled, 
He  sleeps  the  faster  that  he  wept  before. 

From  a  couch  of  sickness  went  forth  those  earnest, 
scholarly,  and  artistic  poems  of  Mrs.  Barrett  Brown- 
ing, which  have  won  for  her  such  pre-eminent  fame. 
This  gifted  daughter  of  genius  left  our  world,  after 
enriching  it  with  many  an  imperishable  tribute  of  her 
Muse,  in  the  midsummer  of  1861  ;  and  her  "sacred 
dust "  sleeps  under  the  blue  sky  of  that  land  — 

"  Where  the  poet's  lip  and  the  painter's  hand 
Are  most  divine." 

Whoever  of  us  may  hereafter  chance  to  visit  Flor- 
ence will  not  be  likely  to  forget  that  poet-shrine  in  the 
English  burying-ground  there  ;  associating  it  with  her 
own  plaintive  and  prophetic  words,  so  familiar  to  us 
all,— 

And  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep,  — 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all. 
Say,  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall,  — 
*  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.'  " 


4l6  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

We  have,  however,  begun  her  beautiful  poem  with 
the  last  stanza  :  let  us  recite  one  or  two  of  those  pre- 
ceding :  — 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God,  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  there  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this, — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved. 
The  poet's  star-tuned  heart  to  sweep. 
The  Senate's  shouts  to  patriot's  vows. 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows,  — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

How  affectingly  beautiful  are  her  lines  on  Cowper's 
Grave!  —  too  long,  however,  for  insertion  here,  and 
too  excellent  to  be  marred  by  abridgment. 

Procter  (known  by  the  pseudonym  of  Barry  Corn- 
wall) was  born  in  1790.  He  has  published  "Dramatic 
Sketches,"  and  various  other  volumes  of  lyrics;  some 
of  which  exhibit  a  happy  combination  of  religious  feel- 
ing with  poetic  skill.     For  example,  the  following  :  — 

We  are  born  ;  we  laugh  ;  we  weep  ; 

We  love  ;  we  droop  ;  we  die  ; 
Ah  !  wherefore  do  we  laugh  or  weep  ? 

Why  do  we  live  or  die  ? 
Who  knows  that  secret  deep  ? 

Alas !  not  I. 

Why  doth  the  violet  spring 

Unseen  by  human  eye  ? 
Why  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 

Sweet  thoughts  that  quickly  fly  ? 
Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 

To  things  that  die  ? 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  417 

We  toil,  through  pain  and  wrong  ; 

We  fight  — and  fly; 
We  love  ;  we  lose  ;  and  then,  ere  long, 

Stone-dead  we  lie. 
O  life  !  is  all  thy  song 

"  Endure  and  die  "  ? 


There  is  a  land  immortal,  the  beautiful  of  lands ; 

Beside  the  ancient  portal  a  sentry  grimly  stands. 

He  only  can  undo  it,  and  open  wide  the  door. 

And  mortals  who  pass  through  it  are  mortals  never  more. 

Their  sighs  are  lost  in  singing,  they're  blessed  in  their  tears. 
Their  journey  homeward  winging,  they  leave  to  earth  their  fears. 
Death  like  an  angel  seemeth,  —  "  We  welcome  thee,"  they  cry  ; 
Their  face  with  glory  beameth,  'tis  life  with  them  to  die  !  * 

Here  is  a  little  lyric  gem,  from  the  facile  and  pictu- 
resque pen  of  Charles  Kingsley  :  — 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you ; 
No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and  gray  ; 
Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can  leave  you. 

For  every  day : 
Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever ; 
Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long ; 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  forever 

One  grand,  sweet  song  ! 

Harriet  Winslow  List  is  the  author  of  these  beautiful 

lines  :  — 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  for  ever  sighing, 

For  the  far-oflf,  unattained,  and  dim. 
While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying, 

Offers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 
Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching. 

All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still ; 
Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are  preaching. 

Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 


•  Flavel  beautifully  said,  "  Heaven  is  epitomized  in  holiness,  and  it  is  the  true  badge 
and  livery  of  the  heaven-born." 

27 


4l8  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Not  by  deeds  that  win  the  crowd's  applauses, 
Not  by  works  that  give  thee  world-renown, 

Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  crosses, 
Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal  crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely, 

Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give  ; 
Thou  wilt  find,  by  hearty  striving  only. 

And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live. 

The  late  Adelaide  A.  Procter,  daughter  of  the  well- 
known  poet  of  that  name,  has  left  us  some  rare  Chris- 
tian lyrics :  we  quote  a  few  lines  from  her  hymn  on 
Thankfulness  :  — 

My  God,  I  thank  Thee  who  hast  made  the  earth  so  bright; 
So  full  of  splendor  and  of  joy,  beauty  and  light ; 
So  many  glorious  things  are  here,  noble  and  right. 
I  thank  Thee,  too,  that  Thou  hast  made  joy  to  abound ; 
So  many  gentle  thoughts  and  deeds  circling  us  round  ; 
That  in  the  darkest  spot  of  earth  some  love  is  found. 
I  thank  Thee  more  that  all  our  joy  is  touched  with  pain ; 
That  shadows  fall  on  brightest  hours  ;  that  thorns  remain  ; 
So  that  earth's  bliss  may  be  our  guide,  and  not  our  chain. 
For  Thou,  w^ho  knowest.  Lord,  how  soon  our  weak  heart  clings, 
Hast  given  us  joys,  tender  and  true,  yet  all  with  wings  ; 
So  that  we  see,  gleaming  on  high,  diviner  things. 

Here  is  a  little  admonitory  gem  of  hers  :  — 

One  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing,  one  by  one  the  moments  fall ; 
Some  are  coming,  some  are  going ;  do  not  strive  to  grasp  them  all. 
One  by  one  thy  duties  wait  thee, — let  thy  whole  strength  go  to  each : 
Let  no  future  dreams  elate  thee ;  learn  thou  first  what  these  can 
teach. 

Every  hour  that  flits  so  slowly  has  its  task  to  do  or  bear  ; 
Luminous  the  crown,  and  holy,  if  thou  set  each  gem  with  care. 
Hours  are  golden  links,  God's  token,  reaching  heaven  ;  but  one  by 

one 
Take  them,  lest  the  chain  be  broken  ere  thy  pilgrimage  be  done. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  4I9 

R.  M.  Milnes  (Lord  Houghton)  has  pubhshed  sev- 
eral fine  pieces;  among  them,  some  lines  on  "The 
Worth  of  Hours,"  —  which  end  as  follows  :  — 

So  should  we  live  that  every  hour 
May  die,  as  dies  the  natural  flower,  — 
A  self-reviving  thing  of  power ; 

That  every  thought  and  every  deed 
May  hold  within  itself  the  seed 
Of  future  good  and  future  meed  ; 

Esteeming  sorrow,  whose  employ 
Is  to  develop,  not  destroy, 
Far  better  than  a  barren  joy. 

In  the  olden  time,  the  hum  of  Babel  did  not  reach 
to  the  scholar's  hermitage.  "When  all  is  still  and 
quiet  in  a  man,  then  will  God  speak  to  him,  in  the  cool 
of  the  day,"  is  the  beautiful  remark  of  Norris,  of  Be- 
merton  ;  "  and,  in  that  calm  and  silence  of  the  passions, 
the  Divine  voice  will  be  heard."  It  would  be  well  for 
us,  of  these  days  of  tumult  and  strange  excitement, 
could  we  steal  away  awhile  from  the  thronged  thorough- 
fares of  life,  at  quiet  eventide,  and  muse  over  the  sug- 
gestive lives  and  instructive  pages  of  the  worthies  who 
have  bequeathed  to  us  the  wealth  of  their  experience 
in  their  Christian  melodies.  Ben  Jonson,  inspired  by 
the  genius  of  his  age,  remarked,  "  Good  men  are 
the  stars  of  the  world."  One  of  these  stars,  Owen 
Feltham,  justly  observes,  "The  acts  of  our  famous 
predecessors  are  beacons  set  upon  hills  to  summon  us 
to  the  defence  of  virtue."  He  says  elsewhere, — in  one 
of  his  letters,  late  in  life,  —  "I  have  lived  in  such  a 
course,  as  my  books  have  ever  been  my  delight  and 
recreation ;  and  that  which  some  men  call  idleness,  I 
will  call  the  sweetest  part  of  my  life,  —  and  that  is  my 


420  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

thinking."  The  movements  of  the  age  are  somewhat 
swifter  now  than  then ;  yet  that  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  deny  ourselves  all  repose  and  reflection. 

Fittingly  does  the  laurel-crown  adorn  the  brow  of 
Alfred  Tennyson,  —  a  minstrel  worthy  to  be  successor 
to  William  Wordsworth.  Our  poet's  early  days  were 
passed  amid  the  fens  of  Lincolnshire  and  Cambridge ; 
and  there,  in  his  earlier  poems,  he  pictured  his  land- 
scapes ;  but  the  productions  of  his  maturer  years  have 
taken  tone  and  color  from  the  richer  scenery  around 
Alum  Bay,  Carisbrook,  and  his  beautiful  home  adja- 
cent,—  Farringford,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  Within 
this  quiet,  rural  retreat  by  the  sea,  Tennyson  lives 
among  his  children  and  his  books ;  extracting,  ever 
and  anon,  from  his  wayside  rambles,  many  an  illu- 
minated and  beautiful  thought,  for  the  delectation  of 
his  readers.  His  ideal  and  elegiac  poems  are  well 
known;  indeed,  so  are  his  "Locksley  Hall,"  "Idyls 
of  the  King,"  &c.  We  might  easily  increase  the  store, 
had  we  space  to  spare ;  but  here  are  a  few  brilliants 
from  the  pictorial  pages  of  Tennyson  :  — 

More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore  let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats, 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer, 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 

VICTORIOUS   FAITH. 

I  cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  heaven  ; 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  42I 

Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stream, 

Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam, 

And  did  not  dream  it  was  a  dream ; 

But  heard,  by  secret  transports  led, 

Even  in  the  charnels  of  the  dead. 

The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head  : 

Which  did  accomplish  their  desire, 

Bore  and  forbore,  and  did  not  tire. 

Like  Stephen,  an  unquenched  fire. 

He  heeded  not  reviling  tones. 

Nor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans. 

Though  cursed  and  scorned,  and  hissed,  with  stones : 

But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace. 

He  prayed,  and  from  a  happy  place 

God's  glory  smote  him  on  the  face. 

Who  that  has  ever  lingered  by  some  rippling  brook, 
in  a  shady  retreat,  and  listened  to  its  sweet  music,  does 
not  recall  Tennyson's  expressive  lyric,  as  liquid  in  its 
ripple  as  the  stream  it  describes?  — 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern,  I  make  a  sudden  sally, 

And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern,  to  bicker  down  a  valley, 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways,  in  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays,  I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret,  by  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set  with  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow  to  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go,  but  I  go  on  for  ever. 
I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out,  with  here  a  blossom  sailing, 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout,  and  here  and  there  a  grayling. 
And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake  upon  me,  as  I  travel. 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak  above  the  golden  gravel, 
And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow  to  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go,  but  I  go  on  for  ever. 

Bernard  Barton,  the  Quaker  poet  (1784-1849),  de- 
serves a  place  among  the  Christian  minstrels,  for  his 
many  refined  and  musical  lyrics.  Some  specimen 
lines  follow,  from  his  poem  on  Human  Life  :  — 


422  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

I  walked  the  fields  at  morning's  prime,  the  grass  was  ripe  for  mow- 
ing; 

The  skylark  sang  his  matin  chime,  and  all  was  brightly  glowing. 

"And  thus,"  I  cried,  "the  ardent  boy,  his  pulse  with  rapture  beat- 
ing, 

Deems  life's  inheritance  a  joy,  the  future  proudly  greeting." 

I  wandered  forth  at  noon :  alas  !  on  earth's  maternal  bosom 

The  scythe  had  left  the  withering  grass,  and  stretched  the  fading 
blossom. 

And  thus,  I  thought,  with  many  a  sigh,  the  hopes  we  fondly  cher- 
ish, 

Like  flowers,  which  blossom  but  to  die,  seem  only  born  to  perish. 

Once  more  at  eve  abroad  I  strayed,  through  lonely  hay-fields 
musing, 

While  every  breeze  that  round  me  played,  rich  fragrance  was  dif- 
fusing. 

His  vigorous  lines  on  "  The  Sabbath  "  remind  us  of 
George  Herbert :  — 

Types  of  eternal  rest,  fair  buds  of  bliss, 

In  heavenly  flowers  unfolding  week  by  week  ; 

The  next  world's  goodness  imaged  forth  in  this  ; 

Days  of  whose  worth  the  Christian's  heart  can  speak! 

Days  fixed  by  God  for  intercourse  with  dust, 
To  raise  our  thoughts  and  purify  our  powers  ; 

Periods  appointed  to  renew  our  trust  ; 
A  gleam  of  glory  after  six  days'  showers  ! 

Foretastes  of  heaven  on  earth,  pledges  of  joy 
Surpassing  fancy's  fiights  and  fiction's  story; 

The  preludes  of  a  feast  that  cannot  cloy, 

And  the  bright  out-courts  of  immortal  glory  I 

One  of  the  most  industrious  and  skilful  of  literary 
benefactors  to  our  sacred  anthology  is  Sir  John  Bow- 
ring.  In  the  department  of  Letters  he  has  been  a 
laborious  worker.    Besides  various  translations  from  the 


MODERN    ENGLISH   AND   AMERICAN.  423 

Russian,  Hungarian,  Bohemian,  and  other  national 
poets,  he  has  pubhshed  "  Matins  and  Vespers," 
"Hymns,"  and  other  works  in  prose.  He  was  appointed 
British  Governor  at  Hong  Kong,  and  subsequently 
to  a  special  mission  to  Siam ;  and  in  1859  retired 
from  public  service,  with  distinguished  honor  and  a 
pension. 

His  hymns  are  much  admired  ;  for  example,  these  : 
"In  the  cross  of  Christ  I  glory,"  "Watchman,  tell  us 
of  the  night." 

Bowring's  lyrics  are  charming.  Here  is  one  of  the 
choicest :  — 

Sweet  are  til's  joys  of  home,  and  pure  as  sweet ;  for  they, 

Like  dews  of  morn  and  evening,  come  to  wake  and  close  the  day. 

The  world  hath  its  delights,  and  its  delusions  too ; 

But  home  to  calmer  bliss  invites,  more  tranquil  and  more  true. 

Life's  charities,  like  light,  spread  smilingly  afar ; 

But  stars  approached  become  more  bright,  and  home  is  life's  own 

star. 
The  pilgrim's  step  in  vain  seeks  Eden's  sacred  ground ; 
But  in  home's  holy  joys  again  an  Eden  may  be  found. 
A  glance  of  heaven  to  see,  to  none  on  earth  is  given ; 
And  yet  a  happy  family  is  but  an  earlier  heaven ! 

His  song  on  the  beauties  of  creation  ends  with  this 
choice  stanza :  — 

And  if  thy  glories  here  be  found 
Streaming  with  radiance  all  around, 

What  must  the  Fount  of  Glory  be  ? 
In  Thee  we'll  hope  ;  in  Thee  confide ; 
Thou  mercy's  never-ebbing  tide  ! 

Thou  Love's  unfathomable  sea  ! 

Mrs.  Craik  (better  known  as  Miss  Muloch),  author 
of  "John  Halifax,"  and  numerous  other  popular  works, 


424 


EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 


has  contributed  some  exquisite  little  lyrics  to  our  sacred 
poetry.  We  have  annexed  two  examples ;  the  first 
is  founded  upon  a  Russian  proverb,  and  is  entitled 
"  Labor  and  Rest :  "  — 

Two  hands  across  the  breast,  and  work  is  done  ; 
Two  pale  feet  crossed  in  rest,  the  race  is  run  ! 
Two  eyes  with  coin-weights  shut,  and  all  tears  cease ; 
Two  lips  where  grief  is  mute,  and  wrath  at  peace : 
So  pray  we  oftentimes  mourning  our  lot ; 
God  in  His  kindness  answering  not! 

Two  hands  to  work  addressed,  aye  for  His  praise ; 
Two  feet  that  never  rest,  walking  His  ways  ; 
Two  eyes  that  look  above,  still  tlirough  all  tears ; 
Two  lips  that  speak  but  love,  never  more  fears  : 
So  cry  we  afterwards,  low  at  our  knees,  — 
Pardon  those  erring  prayers  !    Father,  hear  these ! 

MORTALITY. 

Ye  dainty  mosses,  lichens  gray, 

Pressed  each  to  each  in  tender  fold, 
And  peacefully  thus  day  by  day 

Returning  to  their  mould  : 
Brown  leaves,  that  with  aerial  grace 

Slip  from  your  branch  like  birds  a-wing, 
Each  having  in  the  appointed  place 

Its  bud  of  future  spring  : 
If  we,  God's  conscious  creatures,  knew 

But  half  your  faith  in  our  decay, 
We  should  not  tremble  as  we  do 

When  summoned  clay  to  clay. 
But  with  an  equal  patience  sweet, 

We  should  put  off  this  mortal  gear ; 
In  whatsoe'er  new  form  is  meet. 

Content  to  reappear. 
Knowing  each  germ  of  life  He  gives 

Must  have  in  Him  its  source  and  rise; 
Being  that  of  His  being  lives 

May  change,  but  never  dies. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  425 

Ye  dead  leaves,  dropping  soft  and  slow, 

Ye  mosses  green  and  lichens  fair, 
Go  to  your  graves,  as  I  will  go, 

For  God  is  also  there. 

Mrs.  Charles,  whose  accomplished  and  versatile 
pen  has  enriched  our  sacred  literature  with  so  many 
productions  in  prose  and  verse,  is  the  author  of  these 
musical  and  instructive  lines  :  — 

Is  thy  cruse  of  comfort  failing  ?  rise  and  share  it  with  another , 
And  through  all  the  years  of  famine  it  shall  serve  thee  and  thy 

brother. 
Love  Divine  will  fill  thy  storehouse,  or  thy  handful  still  renew ; 
Scanty  fare  for  one  will  often  make  a  royal  feast  for  two. 
For  the  heart  grows  rich  in  giving  ;  all  its  wealth  is  living  grain  ; 
Seeds,  which  mildew  in  the  garner,  scattered,  fill  with  gold  the 

plain. 
Is  thy  burden  hard  and  heavy  ?  do  thy  steps  drag  wearily  ? 
Help  to  bear  thy  brother's  burden  ;  God  will  bear  both  it  and  thee. 
Numb  and  weary  on  the  mountains,  wouldst  thou  sleep  amidst  the 

snow  ? 
Chafe  that  frozen  form  beside  thee,  and  together  both  shall  glow. 
Art  thou  stricken  in  life's  battle  ?  many  wounded  round  thee  moan  ; 
Lavish  on  their  wounds  thy  balsams,  and  that  balm  shall  heal  thine 

own. 
Is  the  heart  a  well  left  empty  ?    None  but  God  its  void  can  fill  ; 
Nothing  but  a  ceaseless  Fountain  can  its  ceaseless  longings  still. 
Is  the  heart  a  living  power  ?    Self-entwined,  its  strength  sinks  low ; 
It  can  only  live  in  loving,  and  by  serving  love  will  grow. 

Archbishop  Trench,  whose  beautiful  translations  of 
mediaeval  hymns  and  other  cognate  works  are  so 
highly  esteemed,  is  the  author  of  the  following  son- 
nets :  — 

CARPE   DIEM  ! 

We  live  not  in  our  moments  or  our  years  ; 
The  present  we  fling  from  us  like  the  rind 
Of  some  sweet  future,  which  we  after  find 

Bitter  to  taste,  or  bind  that  in  with  fears, 


426  EVENINGS   WITH   THE    SACRED    POETS. 

And  water  it  beforehand  with  our  tears,  — 

Vain  tears  for  that  which  never  may  arrive  ; 

Meanwhile  the  joy  whereby  we  ought  to  live, 
Neglected,  or  unheeded,  disappears. 

Wiser  it  were  to  welcome  and  make  ours 
Whate'er  of  good,  though  small,  the  present  brings, — 

Kind  greetings,  sunshine,  songs  of  birds,  sweet  flowers, 
With  a  child's  pure  delight  in  little  things  ; 

And  of  the  griefs  unborn  to  rest  secure, 

Knowing  that  mercy  ever  will  endure. 


Lord,  what  a  change  within  us  one  short  hour 
Spent  in  Thy  presence  will  avail  to  make  ! 
What  heavy  burdens  from  our  bosoms  take  ; 

What  parched  grounds  refresh,  as  with  a  shower! 

We  kneel,  and  all  around  us  seems  to  lower ; 
We  rise,  and  all  the  distant  and  the  near 
Stands  forth  in  sunny  outline,  brave  and  clear  ! 

We  kneel,  how  weak  !  we  rise,  how  full  of  power  ! 

Why,  therefore,  should  we  do  ourselves  this  wrong, 

Or  others,  that  we  are  not  always  strong ; 

That  we  are  ever  overborne  with  care  ; 
That  we  should  ever  weak  or  heartless  be. 

Anxious  or  troubled,  when  with  us  is  prayer, 

And  joy  and  strength  and  courage  are  with  Thee°} 

Dr.  Bonar  is  a  prominent  clergyman  of  the  Free 
Church  of  Scotland,  and  author  of  many  beautiful 
sacred  lyrics.  His  "Hymns  of  Faith  and  Hope" 
comprise  some  fine  Christian  lyrics ;  many  of  them 
familiar  to  us,  such  as  this  :  — 

I  was  a  wandering  sheep,  I  did  not  love  the  fold  ; 

I  did  not  love  my  shepherd's  voice,  I  would  not  be  controlled,  &c. 

Here  are  some  less  familiar,  and  of  great  beauty;  — 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping  I  shall  be  soon  : 
Beyond  the  waking  and  the  sleeping, 
Beyond  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, 
I  shall  be  soon  ! 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  427 

Love,  rest,  and  home,  —  sweet  hope  ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come  ! 

Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting  I  shall  be  soon : 
Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 
Beyond  this  pulse's  fever-beating, 

I  shall  be  soon  ! 
Love,  rest,  and  home,  —  sweet  hope  ! 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come  ! 


Cling  to  the  Crucified  !     His  death  is  life  to  thee, 

Life  for  eternity ! 
His  pains  thy  pardon  seal ;  His  stripes  thy  bruises  heal ; 
His  cross  proclaims  thy  peace,  bids  every  sorrow  cease ! 
His  blood  is  all  to  thee. 

It  purges  thee  from  sin, 
It  sets  thy  spirit  free. 

It  keeps  thy  conscience  clean. 
Cling  to  the  Crucified  ! 


Far  down  the  ages  now,  her  journey  well-nigh  done. 

The  pilgrim  Church  pursues  her  way,  in  haste  to  reach  the  crown. 

The  story  of  the  past  comes  up  before  her  view ; 

How  well  it  seems  to  suit  her  still,  old,  and  yet  ever  new, 

'Tis  the  same  story  still  of  sin  and  weariness,  — 

Of  grace  and  love  still  flowing  down  to  pardon  and  to  bless. 

'Tis  the  old  sorrow  still,  the  brier  and  the  thorn  ; 

And  'tis  the  same  old  solace  yet,  the  hope  of  coming  morn. 


'Tis  not  for  man  to  trifle !     Life  is  brief, 

And  sin  is  here. 
Our  age  is  but  the  falling  of  a  leaf, 

A  dropping  tear. 
We  have  no  time  to  sport  away  the  hours, 
All  must  be  earnest  in  a  world  like  ours. 

Not  many  lives,  but  only  one  have  we, 

One,  only  one  ; 
How  sacred  should  that  one  life  ever  be, 

That  narrow  span ! 


428  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Day  after  day  filled  up  with  blessed  toil, 
Hour  after  hour  still  bringing  in  new  si^oil. 

O  life  below  !  how  brief  and  poor  and  saa  ! 

One  heavy  sigh  ! 
O  life  above  !  how  long,  how  fair  and  glad  ! 

An  endless  joy ! 
Oh,  to  be  done  with  daily  dying  here  ! 
Oh,  to  begin  the  living  in  yon  sphere  ! 

The  following  beautiful  hymn  for  the  Sabbath  was 
written  by  one  of  England's  greatest  scholars,  Dr. 
Wordsworth,  Canon  of  Westminster  Abbey.  "  I  was 
with  him  in  the  library,"  says  the  correspondent 
who  gave  it  to  the  press,  when  he  put  his  arm  in 
mine,  saying,  '  Come  upstairs  with  me :  the  ladies  are 
going  to  sing  a  hymn  to  encourage  your  labor  for 
God's  holy  day.'  We  all  then  sang  from  manuscript 
the  hymn.  I  was  in  raptures  with  it.  It  was  some 
days  after  before  I  knew  it  was  written  by  himself." 

O  day  of  rest  and  gladness,  O  day  of  joy  and  light, 
O  balm  of  care  and  sadness,  most  beautiful,  most  bright ! 
On  thee  the  high  and  lowly,  bending  before  the  throne, 
Sing,  Holy,  Holy,  Holy,  to  the  great  Three  in  One  ! 

On  thee  at  the  creation  the  light  first  had  its  birth  ; 
On  thee  for  our  salvation  Christ  rose  from  depths  of  earth  ; 
On  thee  our  Lord  victorious  the  Spirit  sent  from  heaven. 
And  thus  on  thee  most  glorious  a  triple  light  was  given. 

Thou  art  a  port  protected  from  storms  that  round  us  rise  ; 
A  garden  intersected  with  streams  of  Paradise  ; 
Thou  art  a  cooling  fountain  in  life's  dry,  dreary  sand  ; 
From  thee,  like  Pisgah's  mountain,  we  view  our  promised  land. 

Thou  art  a  holy  ladder,  where  angels  go  and  come, 
Each  Sunday  finds  us  gladder,  nearer  to  heaven,  our  home ; 
A  day  of  sweet  refection  thou  art,  a  day  of  love, 
A  day  of  resurrection  from  earth  to  things  above. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN. 


429 


^  Going  Out,  and  Coming  In  "  is  the  title  of  an  ex- 
quisite little  lyric  by  Isabella  Craig.  It  is  too  good 
to  abridge  a  line  of  it.  * 

In  that  home  was  joy  and  sorrow,  where  an  infant  first  drew  breath, 
While  an  aged  sire  was  drawing  near  unto  the  gate  of  death  ; 
His  feeble  pulse  was  failing,  and  his  eye  was  growing  dim,  — 
He  was  standing  on  the  threshold,  when  they  brought  the  babe  to 

him : 
While  to  murmur  forth  a  blessing  on  the  little  one  he  tried, 
In  his  trembling  arms  he  raised  it,  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  —  died  ! 
An  awful  darkness  resteth  on  the  path  they  both  begin. 
Who  thus  met  upon  the  threshold,  —  going  out,  and  coming  in  ! 
Going  out  unto  the  triumph,  coming  in  unto  the  fight ; 
Coming  in  unto  the  darkness,  going  out  unto  the  light ! 
Although  the  shadow  deepened  in  the  moment  of  echpse, 
When  he  passed  through  the  dread  portal,  with  the  blessing  on.  his 

lips  ; 
And  to  him  who  bravely  conquers,  as  he  conquered  in  the  strife, 
Life  is  but  the  way  of  dying,  death  is  but  the  gate  of  life  ! 
Yet  awful  darkness  resteth  on  the  path  we  all  begin. 
When  we  meet  upon  the  threshold,  — going  out,  and  coming  in  ! 

It  has  been  beautifully  said,  ''  In  our  world  there 
are  two  very  interesting  events  of  Christian  history ; 
the  one  is  that  of  the  young  disciple  entering  the 
Church  Militant,  the  other  is  that  of  the  aged  disciple 
passing  away  from  earth  to  join  the  Church  Trium- 
phant." 

This,  Miss  Isabella  Craig  has  delicately  and  yet 
forcibly  expressed  in  the  above  lines.  She  took  the 
Crystal  Palace  prize  offered  for  the  best  poem  on 
Burns,  in  1856.  It  was  the  beautiful  thought  of  a 
recent  English  hymnist,  that  "two  streams  flowed 
from  the  threshold  of  Eden,— the  river  of  life  and 
the  fountain  of  tears  !  " 

Here  is  a  striking  poem,  by  Dr.  B.  H.  Kennedy, 
who  is  rector  of  West  Felton,  England  :  — 


430  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Ask  ye  what  great  thing  I  know 
That  dehghts  and  stirs  me  so  ? 
,  What  tlie  high  reward  I  win  ? 

Whose  the  name  I  glory  in  ? 

Jesus  Christ,  the  Crucified  ! 

What  is  faith's  foundation  strong  ? 
What  awakes  my  hjis  to  song  ? 
He  who  bore  my  sinful  load, 
Purchased  for  me  peace  with  God, 
Jesus  Christ,  the  Crucified  ! 

Who  defeats  my  fiercest  foes  ? 
Who  consoles  my  saddest  woes  ? 
Who  revives  my  fainting  heart, 
Healing  all  its  hidden  smart  ? 

Jesus  Christ,  the  Crucified  ! 

Who  is  life  in  life  to  me  ? 
Who  the  death  of  death  will  be  ? 
Who  will  place  me  on  His  right? 
With  the  countless  hosts  of  light? 
Jesus  Christ,  the  Crucified  ! 

Mary  Hewitt's  brilliant  "Thoughts  of  Heaven"  need 
no  introduction  to  secure  a  welcome  :  — 

They  come  as  we  gaze  on  the  midnight  sky. 
When  the  star-gemmed  vault  looks  dark  and  high, 
And  the  soul,  on  the  wings  of  thought  sublime. 
Soars  from  the  dim  world,  and  the  bounds  of  time. 
Till  the  mental  eye  becomes  unsealed, 
And  the  mystery  of  being  in  light  revealed. 
They  rise  in  the  Gothic  chapel  dim, 
When  slowly  comes  forth  the  holy  hymn. 
And  the  organ's  rich  tones  swell  full  and  high, 
Till  the  roof  peals  back  the  melody. 

Thoughts  of  heaven  !  from  his  joy  beguiled. 
They  come  to  the  bright-eyed,  sinless  child ; 
To  the  man  of  age  in  his  dim  decay. 
Bringing  hope  that  his  youth  had  borne  away ; 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  43I 

To  the  woe-smit  soul  in  its  dark  distress, 

As  flowers  spring  up  in  the  wilderness  ; 

And  in  silent  chambers  of  the  dead. 

When  the  mourner  goes  with  soundless  tread  ; 

For,  as  the  day-beams  freely  fall, 

Pure  thoughts  of  heaven  are  sent  to  all. 

This  is  a  beautiful  stanza,  the  closing  one  of  William 
Hewitt's  poem  on  the  Sabbath  :  — 

O'er  the  wide  world,  blest  day,  thine  influence  flies  ! 

Rest  o'er  the  sufferer  spreads  her  balmy  wings  ; 
Love  wakes,  joy  dawns,  praise  fills  the  listening  skies  ; 

The  expanding  heart  from  earth's  enchantment  springs  ; 
Heaven,  for  one  day,  withdraws  its  ancient  ban. 
Unbars  its  gates,  and  dwells  once  more  with  man ! 

Margaret  Mercer  is  the  author  of  the  following  ad- 
mirable lines  :  — 

Not  on  a  prayerless  bed,  not  on  a  prayerless  bed, 
Compose  thy  weary  limbs  to  rest ; 
For  they  alone  are  blest 
With  balmy  sleep 
Whom  angels  keep ; 
Nor,  though  by  care  oppressed,  or  anxious  sorrow, 
Or  thought  in  many  a  coil  perplexed  for  coming  morrow, 
Lay  not  thy  head 
On  prayerless  bed- 
Arouse  thee,  weary  soul,  nor  yield  to  slumber, 
Till,  in  communion  blest, 
With  the  elect  ye  rest, 
Those  souls  of  countless  number ; 
And  with  them  raise 
The  note  of  praise. 
Reaching  from  earth  to  heaven ; 
Chosen,  redeemed,  forgiven ! 
So  lay  thy  happy  head. 
Prayer-crowned,  on  blessed  bed. 


432  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

How  little  faith  we  have  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer ! 
yet,  however  faithless  we  may  become  in  its  exercise, 
there  is  a  reality  in  its  power.  Did  we  remember  that 
in  the  ratio  of  our  faith  is  its  efficacy,  we  should  cease 
to  wonder  that  our  prayers  are  sometimes  unanswered. 
The  heathen  and  the  worldling  do  not  so  regard 
prayer,  in  times  of  extremity ;  when  tlieir  ordinary 
resources  fail  them,  they,  too,  resort  to  prayer.  It  is 
said  that  when  the  Saxon  king,  Ethelred,  invaded 
Wales,  he  observed  near  the  Britons  a  host  of  un- 
armed men.  He  inquired  who  they  were,  and  was 
told  that  they  were  monks  of  Bangor,  praying  for  the 
success  of  their  countrymen.  "  Then  they  have  begun 
the  fight  against  us,"  he  said  :  "attack  them  first." 

All  who  are  taught  by  the  Spirit,  know  that  w^hat 
the  air  of  heaven  is  to  the  body,  what  sunshine  is  to 
the  eye,  what  spring  is  to  flowers,  herbs,  and  trees, 
prayer  is  to  the  believing  soul.  Without  it,  the  soul 
would  sicken  and  die. 

Here  is  one  of  the  late  Dr.  J.  M.  Neale's  splendid 
poems :  — 

The  foe  behind,  the  deep  before, 
Our  hosts  have  dared  and  passed  the  sea  ; 
And  Pharaoh's  warriors  strew  the  shore, 
And  Israel's  ransomed  tribes  are  free  ! 
Lift  up,  lift  up  your  voices  now. 
The  whole  wide  world  rejoices  now ! 
The  Lord  hath  triumphed  gloriously  ! 
The  Lord  shall  reign  victoriously ! 
Happy  morrow,  turning  sorrow  into  peace  and  mirth  ; 
Bondage  ending,  love  descending  o'er  the  earth  ; 
Seals  assuring,  guards  securing,  watch  His  earthly  prison  ; 
Seals  are  shattered,  guards  are  scattered,  Christ  hath  risen  ! 
No  longer  must  the  mourners  weep, 

Nor  call  departed  Christians  dead  ; 
For  death  is  hallowed  into  sleep, 
And  every  grave  becomes  a  bed. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  433 

Now  once  more  Eden's  door  open  stands  to  mortal  eyes. 
For  Christ  hath  risen,  and  men  shall  rise. 

It  is  not  exile,  rest  on  high ;  it  is  not  sadness,  peace  from  strife ; 
To  fall  asleep  is  not  to  die,  to  dwell  with  Christ  is  better  life. 

Our  kindred  and  friends,  who  have  passed  from  the 
domain  of  Time  to  the  great  Eternity,  we  should  ten- 
derly remember.  Because  we  have  been  obliged  to 
bury  their  cherished  forms  in  the  darkness  and  silence 
of  the  tomb,  we  need  not  cease  to  enshrine,  in  our  in- 
most hearts,  the  sweet  memories  of  their  kindly  words 
and  deeds,  until  we,  by  God's  great  bounty,  rejoin 
them  in  the  great  festival  of  eternal  life.  "Very  dear 
were  they  when  with  us  ;  lovingly  would  we  think  of 
them,  now  they  have  left  us." 

The  hymn  so  familiar  to  Sunday-school  gatherings, 
"Jesus  is  mine,"  was  composed  by  Henry  Hope,  of 
Dublin,  and  first  printed  in  1852,  for  private  circula- 
tion, but  has  since  been  included  in  numerous  collec- 
tions. 

Now  I  have  found  a  friend, — Jesus  is  mine  ; 

His  love  shall  never  end,  —  Jesus  is  mine. 
Though  earthly  joys  decrease, 
Though  earthly  friendships  cease, 

Now  I  have  lasting  peace,  Jesus  is  mine. 

Here  is  another  sweet  song,  engendered  in  a  sick- 
room, by  Jane  Crewdson,  of  Manchester,  England, 
who  recently,  during  protracted  illness,  beguiled  her 
seclusion  by  writing  numerous  beautiful  effusions,  like 
the  following  :  — 

I've  found  a  joy  in  sorrow,  a  secret  balm  for  pain, 
A  beautiful  to-morrow,  of  sunshine  after  rain  ; 
I've  found  a  branch  of  healing  near  every  bitter  spring; 
A  whispered  promise  stealing  o'er  every  broken  string ; 
28 


434  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

I've  found  a  glad  hosanna  for  every  woe  and  wail, 
A  handful  of  sweet  manna  when  grapes  from  Eshcol  fail ; 
I've  found  a  "  Rock  of  Ages,"  when  desert  wells  were  dry, 
And,  after  weary  stages,  I've  found  an  Elim  nigh,  — 
An  Elim,  with  its  coolness,  its  fountains,  and  its  shade, 
A  blessing  in  its  fulness,  when  buds  of  promise  fade. 
O'er  tears  of  soft  contrition  I've  seen  a  rainbow  light, — 
A  glory  and  fruition,  so  near,  yet  out  of  sight. 
My  Saviour  !  Thee  possessing,  I  have  the  joy,  the  balm. 
The  healing  and  the  blessing,  the  sunshine  and  the  psalm ; 
The  promise  for  the  fearful,  the  Elim  for  the  faint, 
The  rainbow  for  the  tearful,  the  glory  for  the  saint. 

Charlotte  Bronte,  the  well-known  authoress,  wrote 
some  remarkable  l3n-ics.  We  select  a  stanza  or  two 
from  her  "Twilight  Reveries  :  "  — 

The  human  heart  has  hidden  treasures, 

In  secret  kept,  in  silence  sealed  : 
The  thoughts,  the  hopes,  the  dreams,  the  pleasures, 

Whose  charms  were  broken,  if  revealed. 

And  there  are  hours  of  lonely  musing. 

Such  as  at  twihght's  silence  come, 
When,  soft  as  birds,  their  pinions  closing. 

The  heart's  best  feelings  gather  home. 
Then  in  our  souls  there  seems  to  languish 

A  tender  grief  that  is  not  woe  ; 
And  thoughts  that  once  wrung  groans  of  anguish 

Now  cause  but  some  mild  tears  to  flow. 

And  it  can  dwell  on  moonlight  glimmer. 

On  evening  shades  and  loneliness. 
And,  while  the  sky  grows  dim  and  dimmer, 

Feel  no  untold  and  sad  distress  : 
Only  a  deeper  impulse  given 

By  lonely  hour  and  darkened  room, 
To  solemn  thoughts  that  soar  to  heaven, 

Seeking  a  life  and  world  to  come. 

Emily,  the  sister  of  Charlotte  Bronte^,  has,  m  her 
last  poem,  these  striking  lines:  — 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  435 

No  coward  soul  is  mine, 
No  trembler  in  the  world's  storm-troubled  sphere  ; 

I  see  Heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  faith  shines  equal,  arming  me  from  fear. 

Naught  wakens  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  Thine  infinity ; 

So  surely  anchored  on 
The  steadfast  rock  of  immortality  ! 

With  wide-embracing  love 
Thy  spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above. 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,  creates,  and  rears. 

Though  earth  and  man  were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  ceased  to  be, 

And  Thou  wert  left  alone,  — 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  Thee. 

Like  the  clouded  spirit  of  Cowper,  did  the  othei 
sister,  Anne  Bronte,  seem  to  live  ;  although  her  closing 
hours  were  cheered  by  light  from  Heaven.  "Her 
belief  to  her  then  did  not  bring  to  her  dread,  as  of  a 
stern  Judge,  but  hope,  as  in  a  Father  and  Saviour; 
and  no  faltering  hope  was  it,  but  a  sure  and  steadfast 
conviction,  on  which,  in  the  rude  passage  from  time  to 
eternity,  she  threw  the  weight  of  her  human  weakness, 
and  by  which  she  was  enabled  to  bear  what  was  to  be 
borne,  patiently,  serenely,  victoriously."  Very  touch- 
ing is  her  "  Prayer  :  "  — 

My  God,  (oh,  let  me  call  Thee  mine, — weak,  wretched  sinner  though 
I  be!) 

My  trembling  soul  would  fain  be  Thine  ;  my  feeble  faith  stil.  clings 
to  Thee ; 

Not  only  for  the  past  I  grieve,  —  the  future  fills  me  with  dismay; 

Unless  Thou  hasten  to  relieve.  Thy  suppliant  is  a  castaway ! 

I  cannot  say  my  faith  is  strong,  I  dare  not  hope  my  love  is  great,  — 

But  strength  and  love  to  Thee  belong ;  oh,  do  not  leave  me  deso- 
late' 


436  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

I  know  I  owe  my  all  to  Thee  ;  oh.  take  the  heart  I  cannot  give ; 
Do  Thou,  my  strength,  my  Saviour  be,  and  utake  me  to  Thy  glory 
live  ! 

Her  last  song  on  earth  ended  with  these  beautiful, 
trustful  words  :  — 

If  Thou  shouldst  bring  me  back  to  life,  more  humbled  I  should  be ; 
More  wise,  more  strengthened  for  the  strife,  more  apt  to  lean  on 

Thee  ; 
Should  death  be  standing  at  the  gate,  thus  should  I  keep  my  vow ; 
But,  Lord,  whatever  be  my  fate,  oh,  let  me  serve  Thee  now  / 

These  lines  written,  the  desk  was  closed,  the  pen  laid 
aside  for  ever. 

The  Bronte  family  were  remarkable  for  their  strength 
of  character  and  genius,  as  their  writings  sufficiently 
prove.  These  three  gifted  sisters  followed  each  other, 
in  rapid  succession,  to  the  grave.  They  were,  how- 
ever, sustained,  under  protracted  physical  suffering, 
by  the  consolations  of  the  Christian  faith,  and  died  in 
peace. 

The  magic  power  of  song  is  the  same  in  all  lan- 
guages and  among  all  peoples.  Song  is  coeval  with 
creation:  "the  morning  stars  sang  together,"  and, 
when  the  present  dispensation  shall  have  ended,  the 
"children  of  the  Resurrection"  shall  "come  to  Zion 
with  songs."  Moses  and  Miriam  and  David  and  Sol- 
omon, with  the  ancient  prophets,  and  the  "most  favored 
among  women,"  with  the  angelic  band,  sang  a  Saviour 
born ;  and  the  Redeemer  himself,  at  the  paschal  sup- 
per, with  his  disciples,  sang  an  hymn.  Sacred  song 
has  formed  a  constituent  part  of  Christian  worship, 
throughout  the  centuries,  and  will  continue  such  to  the 
end  of  time.  It  is  also  ever  the  sweet  solace  of  the 
sick-chamber. 


TENTH     EVENING. 


MODERN  ENGLISH   AND   AMERICAN. 

{Continued^ 


TENTH     EVENING. 


MODERN  ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN. 

{Co7ttinued.) 

"DY  its  association  with  some  personal  incident  or 
-*-^  event,  how  fondly  do  we  sometimes  cherish  the 
memory  of  an  old  hymn  !  And  how  doubly  dear  to  us 
does  it  become,  when  it  is  identified  with  the  history 
of  those  we  have  "  loved  and  lost"  !  But  not  as  memen- 
toes of  the  past,  merely,  do  these  devotional  melodies 
charm  us,  as  with  talismanic  power  :  they  also  tend  to 
elevate  and  refine  the  heart,  inspiring  it  with  a  noble 
ambition  towards  a  happy,  tuneful,  Christian  life, — 
a  life  of  inward  harmony,  thankfulness,  and  peace. 

"Stand  up,  stand  up  for  Jesus!"  a  heart-stirring 
hymn,  was  written  by  Mr.  George  Duffield,  a  Presby- 
terian clergyman  of  Detroit.  It  was  composed  to  be 
sung  after  a  sermon  on  the  death  of  the  Rev.  Dudley 
A.  Tyng,  whose  dying  counsel  to  his  niinisterial  breth- 
ren was  expressed  in  the  above  words. 

The  Christmas  number  of  the  "  Household  Words," 
for  1856,  contains  the  "Wreck  of  the  Golden  Mary  ;  " 
and,  although  you  may  not  expect  it,  there  you  will 
find  a  beautiful  Christian  lyric,  commencing,  "  Hear 
my  prayer,  O  heavenly  Father  ! "  Both  the  story  and 
the  hymn  are  the  production  of  Harriet  Parr,  better 


440  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    TOETS. 

known  to  the  reading  public  by  her  nom  de  flume  of 
"  Hohne  Lee ; "  and  as  the  incident  is  germain  to  our 
purpose,  we  may  as  well  give  the  reader  the  main 
points  of  it. 

The  story  runs,  that  the  ship  "Golden  Mary"  struck 
on  an  iceberg,  and  the  passengers  and  crew  had  to 
take  to  the  boats,  in  which  they  remained,  suffering 
great  privations,  for  some  days.  To  beguile  the  time, 
they  told  stories.  This  hymn  was  repeated  by  one 
Dick  Tarrant,  a  youth  who  had  given  himself  up  to 
dissipation,  on  being  disappointed  in  love.  Having 
become  a  burden  to  his  friends,  they  had  sent  him  off" 
in  the  "Golden  Mary"  to  California,  to  get  him  out  of 
the  way.  After  telling,  in  touching  terms,  some  of  his 
experience,  he  continues,  "What  can  it  be  that  brings 
all  these  old  things  over  my  mind?  There's  a  child's 
hymn  I  and  Tom  used  to  say  at  my  mother's  knee, 
when  we  were  little  ones,  keeps  running  through  my 
thoughts.  It's  the  stars,  maybe ;  there  was  a  little 
window  by  my  bed,  that  I  used  to  watch  them  at,  —  a 
window  in  my  room  at  home,  in  Cheshire ;  and  if  I 
was  ever  afraid,  as  boys  will  be  after  reading  a  good 
ghost  story,  I  would  keep  on  saying  it  till  I  fell  asleep." 
—  "That  was  a  good  mother  of  yours,  Dick:  could 
you  say  that  hymn  now,  do  3^ou  think?  Some  of  us 
might  like  to  hear  it."  —  "It's  as  clear  in  my  mind  at 
this  minute  as  if  my  mother  was  here  listening  to  me," 
said  Dick;  and  he  repeated,  "Hear  my  prayer,  O 
heavenly  Father  ! "  &c.  Well  might  George  Herbert 
sing,  — 

A  verse  may  catch  a  wandering  soul,  that  flies 
Profounder  tracts,  and,  by  a  blest  surprise, 
Convert  delight  into  a  sacrifice. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  44I 

On  the  border  of  a  little  mountain  stream,  near 
the  village  of  Munson,  Mass.,  might  have  been 
seen,  some  few  years  since,  a  well-worn  foot-path 
leading  from  an  adjacent  cottage  down  among  the 
trees  and  alders  that  skirted  a  babbling  brook ;  and 
there,  beneath  a  shelving  rock,  might  have  been 
found  a  well-used  Bible.  If  those  trees  had  tongues, 
they  might  tell  of  many  an  heartfelt,  earnest  prayer, 
that  went  up  from  beneath  that  shady  solitude  into  the 
ever-accessible  ear  of  God.  The  pilgrim  whose  feet 
were  wont  so  oft  to  seek  that  hallowed  retreat,  where 
none  but  God  could  hear,  loved  to  linger  there,  not 
only  to  lift  up  the  voice  of  prayer  and  praise,  but  also 
to  consult  the  Sacred  Oracles.  A  true  lover  of  nature, 
with  a  soul  alive  to  the  beautiful,  and  susceptible  of 
its  benign  and  refining  influences,  she  dearly  loved 
this  little  sylvan  sanctuar}^.  One  summer  evening, 
when  repairing  tWther,  as  she  supposed,  unnoticed  by 
any  human  being,  some  one  rudely  and  irreverently 
invaded  the  privacy  of  her  devotions,  insultingly  re- 
proaching her  for  her  habit  of  making  this  spot  an 
oratory  for  worship.  Returning  home,  sorely  grieved 
by  the  wickedness  of  the  assault,  she  sought  relief  in 
prayer,  and  soon  her  mind  became  again  composed : 
and,  taking  a  pen,  she  wrote,  as  an  impromptu  answer 
to  the  assailant,  that  famous  hymn,  — 

I  love  to  steal  awhile  away  from  every  earthly  care, 

And  spend  the  hour  of  setting  day,  in  humble,  grateful  prayer. 

Would  you  know  who  this  saintly  one  was?  It  was 
the  beloved  mother  of  Mr.  S.  R.  Brown,  of  Auburn, 
N.Y.,  to  whom  (through  the  columns  of  the  "Watch- 
man and  Reflector  ")  we  are  indebted  for  these  inter- 


442  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

esting  particulars.  We  are  told  that  she  was  self- 
taught  as  to  human  knowledge,  but  she  was  evidently 
no  inapt  scholar  in  the  school  of  Christ.  This  beauti- 
ful lyric  might  never  have  been  known  to  the  world, 
had  not  Dr.  Nettleton  discovered  its  value,  and  placed 
it  with  his  "  Village  Hymns."  We  shall  sing  this  hymn 
hereafter,  with  increased  interest,  knowing  the  occa- 
sion which  originated  it ;  and  the  authoress  will  be 
endeared  to  us  by  her  many  prayers. 

"  Many  prayers  have  gone  up  from  that  solitary  place, 
not  onl}'  for  herself  and  her  children,  but  for  those 
that  were  afar  off.  Her  heart  was  as  broad  as  the 
world  in  its  sympathies.  Long  before  there  was  a 
foreign  missionary  organization  in  this  country,  she 
used  to  send  the  small  sums  she  could  earn  or  save  to 
the  early  missionaries  in  India  and  South  Africa,  through 
a  Christian  merchant  of  Philadelphia,  whose  ships  vis- 
ited those  regions.  She  gladly  gave  up  her  only  son 
once  to  go  to  China,  and  again,  in  her  old  age,  to  go 
to  Japan.  When  she  parted  with  him,  in  1859,  as  she 
took  her  seat  in  a  railway  carriage,  to  go  a  thousand 
miles  west,  to  find  her  last  home  on  earth,  there  was 
no  tear  in  her  eyes,  and  the  only  symptom  of  emotion 
observable  was  a  slight  quiver  of  her  lip  as  she  kissed 
him  good-by.  She  died  in  1861,  aged  seventy-eight 
years." 

Faber's  beautiful  poem,  "The  Shadow  of  the  Rock," 
commences  with  these  fine  stanzas  :  — 

The  Shadow  of  the  Rock  !     Stay,  pilgrim,  stay ! 
Night  treads  upon  the  heels  of  day ; 
There  is  no  other  resting-place  this  way. 

The  Rock  is  near, 

The  well  is  clear  : 
Rest  in  the  Shadow  of  the  Rock  ! 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  443 

The  Shadow  of  the  Rock  !     The  desert  wide 
Lies  round  thee  Hke  a  trackless  tide, 
In  waves  of  sand  forlornly  multiplied. 

The  sun  is  gone. 

Thou  art  alone  : 
Rest  in  the  Shadow  of  the  Rock  ! 

The  Shadow  of  the  Rock  !     All  come  alone  ; 

All,  ever  since  the  sun  hath  shone, 

Who  travelled  by  this  road  have  come  alone. 

Be  of  good  cheer, 

A  home  is  here  : 
Rest  in  the  Shadow  of  the  Rock  ! 

The   following    noble    numbers    he    entitles   "The 
Heart's  Home  :  "  — 

Hark,  hark,  my  soul !  angelic  songs  are  swelling 

O'er  earth's  green  fields,  and  ocean's  wave-beat  shore  ! 
How  sweet  the  truth,  those  blessed  strains  are  telling, 

Of  that  new  life  when  sin  shall  be  no  more  ! 
Darker  than  night  life's  shadows  fall  around  us, 

And,  like  benighted  men,  we  miss  our  mark ; 
God  hides  Himself,  and  grace  has  scarcely  found  us, 

Ere  death  finds  out  his  victims  in  the  dark. 
Onward  we  go,  for  still  we  hear  them  singing, 

«  Come,  weary  souls,  for  Jesus  bids  you  come  ;  " 
And  through  the  dark,  its  echoes  sweetly  ringing, 

The  music  of  the  gospel  leads  us  home. 

The  re-issue,  several  years  ago,  by  Cardinal  Newman, 
of  the  "  Lyra  Apostolica,"  which  the  eminent  scholar 
and  divine  first  issued  nearly  fifty  years  previously, 
brings  to  recollection  the  circumstances  under  which  it 
was  first  prepared.  Full  of  deep  dejection,  as  he  was, 
over  the  condition  of  the  English  Church,  and  so  con- 
cerned for  its  future  welfare  that  he  felt  in  his  soul  that 
there  was  urgent  necessity  for  a  second  Reformation,  in 
company  with  Richard  Hurrell  Froude,  he  made  a  jour- 


444  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

ney  to  the  south  of  Europe,  for  the  purpose  of  securing 
a  temporary  change  of  residence,  in  order  that  he  might 
quietly  reflect  on  the  situation  of  affairs  in  his  native 
land.  While  sojourning  in  the  "  Eternal  City  "  the  two 
friends  began  to  write  poems,  and  to  forward  them  to 
England  for  publication.  (They  were  subsequently  in- 
cluded in  the  volume  "Lyra  Apostolica.")  They  bor- 
rowed a  copy  of  Homer,  and,  on  looking  it  over,  selected 
as  a  motto  the  language  uttered  by  Achilles  on  his 
return  to  battle :  "  You  shall  know  the  difference,  now 
that  I  am  back  again."  Leaving  his  companion  in 
Rome,  Newman  departed  for  Palermo,  but  was  taken 
ill  on  the  journey.  One  day  his  servant  found  him 
sitting  up  in  bed  weeping,  and  inquired  the  cause  of 
his  grief.  The  only  reply  he  returned  was,  ''  I  have 
a  work  to  do ;  I  must  go  back  to  England."  As  soon 
as  he  was  able  to  travel  he  set  sail  on  an  orange  ves- 
sel for  Marseilles,  and  it  was  during  the  voyage  that 
he  wrote  —  and  from  the  depths  of  his  heart  —  the 
lines  beginning, — 

Lead,  Kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home,  — 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 
Keep  Thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene,  —  one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on  ; 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path,  but  now 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 
I  loved  the  garisli  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will :  remember  not  past  years. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  445 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  blest  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on  ; 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone; 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 

How  many  noble  minds  have  been  first  illuminated 
with  light  from  heaven,  in  the  academies  of  the  Scot- 
tish metropolis.  Among  the  number  was  the  devout 
McCheyne,  a  Christian  minister  of  rare  excellence 
and  high  mental  endowments.  He  was  a  pupil  of 
Dr.  Chalmers's  Divinity  Class  at  the  University,  and 
an  associate  of  Dr.  H.  Bonar.  Preaching  was  his 
favorite  engagement,  and  he  was  eminently  success- 
ful in  the  pulpit.  He  was  born  in  the  year  1813,  and 
died  in  1843.  We  present  a  fragment  from  one  of  his 
hymns :  — 

When  this  passing  world  is  done, 
When  has  sunk  yon  glaring  sun, 
When  we  stand  with  Christ  in  glory, 
Looking  o'er  life's  finished  story,  — 
Then,  Lord,  shall  I  fully  know  — 
Not  till  then  —  how  much  I  owe  ! 

Even  on  earth,  as  through  a  glass 
Darkly,  let  Thy  glory  pass. 
Make  forgiveness  feel  so  sweet, 
Make  Thy  Spirit's  help  so  meet ; 
Even  on  earth,  Lord,  make  m.e  know 
Something  of  how  much  I  owe. 

Another  of  his  hymns  is  entitled  "Jehovah  Tsid- 
kenu,"  ("The  Lord  our  Righteousness,"  the  watch- 
word of  the  Reformers). 


44^  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

I  once  was  a  stranger  to  grace  and  to  God, 
I  knew  not  my  danger,  I  felt  not  my  load  ; 
Though  friends  spoke  in  rapture  of  Christ  on  the  tree, 
Jehovah  Tsidkenu  was  nothing  to  me. 

Macduff,  the  Scottish  clergyman,  and  well-known 
author  of  the  "Words  of  Jesus,"  and  similar  works, 
wrote  this  fine  hymn  :  — 

Christ  is  coming  !  let  creation  bid  her  groans  and  travail  cease  ; 
Let  the  glorious  proclamation  hope  restore,  and  faith  increase. 

Maranatha  !     Come,  thou  blessed  Prince  of  Peace  ! 
Earth  can  now  but  tell  the  story  of  Thy  bitter  cross  and  pain  ; 
She  shall  yet  behold  Thy  glory,  when  Thou  comest  back  to  reign. 

Maranatha  !     Let  each  heart  repeat  the  strain  ! 

Long  Thy  exiles  have  been  pining,  far  from  rest  and  home  and 

Thee; 
But  in  heavenly  vesture  shining,  soon  they  shall  Thy  glory  see. 

Maranatha  !     Haste  the  joyous  jubilee  ! 
With  that  "  blessed  hope  "  before  us,  let  no  harp  remain  unstrung ; 
Let  the  mighty  advent-chorus  onward  roll  from  tongue  to  tongue, 

Maranatha  !     Come,  Lord  Jesus,  quickly  come  ! 

S.  F.  Smith,  an  eminent  Baptist  minister,  of  New- 
ton, Mass.,  has  contributed  some  excellent  hymns, 
such  as  "Softly  fades  the  twilight  ray,"  "When  thy 
mortal  life  is  fled,"  "My  country,  'tis  of  thee,"  &c. 

We  cull  from  "English  Lyrics,"  by  C.  L.  Ford  ;  the 
following  verses  entitled  "  Marah  : "  — 

God  sends  us  bitter,  that  the  sweet. 

By  absence  known,  may  sweeter  prove, 
As  dark  for  light,  as  cold  for  heat, 
Brings  greater  love. 

God  sends  us  bitter,  as  to  show 

He  can  both  sweet  and  bitter  send  ; 
Thus  both  the  might  and  love  we  know 
Of  our  great  Friend. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  447 

He  sends  us  bitter,  that  Heaven's  sweet, 
Earth's  bitter  o'er,  may  sweeter  taste, 
As  Canaan's  ground  to  Israel's  feet 
For  that  great  waste. 

And,  lo !  before  us  in  the  way 

We  view  the  fountains  and  the  palms. 
And  drink,  and  pitch  our  tents,  and  stay 
Singing  sweet  psalms. 

Mrs.  J.  Luke,  of  Clifton,  Gloucestershire,  who 
edited  the  "  Missionary  Repository  "  for  several  years, 
and  wrote  works  for  children,  &c.,  is  the  author 
of  the  touching  little  poem,  so  familiar  to  our  Sunday- 
school  teachers  and  scholars  :  — 

I  think,,  when  I  read  that  sweet  story  of  old, 

When  Jesus  was  here  among  men, 
How  He  called  little  children,  as  lambs,  to  His  fold, 

I  should  like  to  have  been  with  them  then. 
I  wish  that  His  hands  had  been  placed  on  my  head. 

That  His  arm  had  been  thrown  around  me, 
And  that  I  might  have  seen  His  kind  look  when  He  said, 

"  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  me  !  " 

The  above  was  composed  in  the  year  1841,  in  a 
stage-coach,  for  a  village  school,  near  Poundsford  Park. 

E.  H.  Sears,  born  in  1810,  in  Berkshire,  Mass.,  has 
written  several  prose  works,  "  A^hanasia,  or  Foregleams 
of  Immortality,"  &c.  ;  also  several  glowing  sacred  lyr- 
ics, including  those  well-known  hymns,  "  It  came 
upon  the  midnight  clear,"  and  "  Calm  on  the  listening 
ear  of  night."  We  subjoin  the  opening  stanzas  of  the 
first-named :  — 

It  came  upon  the  midnight  clear,  that  glorious  song  of  old. 
From  angels  bending  near  the  earth  to  touch  their  harps  of  gold : 
"  Peace  to  the  earth,  good-will  to  man,  from  heaven's  all-gracious 

King;" 
The  world  in  solemn  stillness  lay  to  hear  the  angels  sing. 


44S  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Still  through  tlie  cloven  skies  they  come,  with  peaceful  wings  un- 
furled ; 
And  still  their  heavenly  music  floats  o'er  all  the  weary  world; 
Above  its  sad  and  lowly  plains  they  bend  on  heavenly  wing, 
And  ever  o'er  its  Babel  sounds  the  blessed  angels  sing ! 

Thomas  Davis,  one  of  the  recent  EngHsh  poets,  thus 
sings :  — 

Why  comes  this  fragrance  on  the  summer  breeze. 
The  blended  tribute  of  ten  thousand  flowers, 

To  me,  a  frequent  wanderer  'mid  the  trees 
That  form  these  gay,  yet  solitary  bowers  ? 

One  answer  is  around,  beneath,  above : 

The  echo  of  the  voice,  that  God  is  love  ! 

Why  bursts  such  melody  from  tree  and  bush, 
The  overflowing  of  each  songster's  heart: 

So  filling  mine,  that  it  can  scarcely  hush 
Awhile  to  listen,  but  would  take  its  part  ? 

'Tis  but  one  song  I  hear  where'er  I  rove, 

Though  countless  be  the  notes,  that  God  is  love ! 

Dr.  Monsell,  of  Winchester,  England,  is  too  well 
known  by  his  volumes  of  exquisite  religious  lyrics,  to 
need  further  introduction  :  we  present  the  first  and  last 
stanzas  of  his  impressive  hymn  on  Gethsemane :  — 

Wouldst  thou  -learn  the  depth  of  sin,  all  its  bitterness  and  pain  ? 
What  it  cost  thy  God  to  win  sinners  to  Himself  again  ? 

Come,  poor  sinner,  come  with  me,  — 

Visit  sad  Gethsemane  ! 

Hate  the  sin  that  cost  so  dear;  love  the  God  that  loved  thee  so; 
Weep,  if  thou  wilt,  but  likewise  fear  to  bid  that  fountain  freshly  flow 

That  gushed  so  freely  once  for  thee 

In  sorrowful  Gethsemane  ! 

His  hymn  of  Spring  allegorized  is  replete  with 
lyric  grace  and  beauty  :  — 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  449 

The  spring-tide  hour  brings  leaf  and  flower,  with  songs  of  life  and 

love ; 
And  many  a  lay  wears  out  the  day  in  many  a  leafy  grove. 
Bird,  flower,  and  tree  seem  to  agree  their  choicest  gifts  to  bring ; 
But  this  poor  heart  bears  not  its  part,  in  it  there  is  no  spring. 
Dews  fall  apace  —  the  dews  of  grace  —  upon  this  soul  of  sin  ; 
And  love  divine  delights  to  shine  upon  the  waste  within : 
Yet,  year  by  year,  fruits,  flowers,  appear,  and  birds  their  praises 

sing: 
But  this  poor  heart  bears  not  its  part,  its  winter  has  no  spring. 
Lord,  let  thy  love,  fresh  from  above,  soft  as  the  south  wind  blow ; 
Call  forth  its  bloom,  wake  its  perfume,  and  bid  its  spices  flow  ! 

Bishop  A.  C.  Coxe,  of  Western  New  York,  has,  in 
his  "  Christian  Ballads,"  given  to  the  religious  world 
some  of  the  choicest  of  sacred  lyrics.  We  regret  our 
restricted  space  forbids  our  citing  more  than  the  follow- 
ing brief  extracts  :  — 


The  lark  is  in  the  sky,  and  his  morning  note  is  pouring : 

He  hath  a  wing  to  fly,  so  he's  soaring.  Christian,  soaring ! 

His  nest  is  on  the  ground,  but  only  in  the  night ; 

For  he  loves  the  matin-sound,  and  the  highest  heaven's  height 

Hark,  Christian,  hark  !  at  heaven-door  he  sings  ! 

And  be  thou  like  the  lark,  with  thy  soaring  spirit-wings  ! 

There  is  morning  incense  flung  from  the  childlike  hly  flowers ; 

And  their  fragrant  censer  swung,  make  it  ours.  Christian,  ours ! 

And  hark  !  our  Mother's  hymn,  and  the  organ-peals  we  love  \ 

They  sound  like  cherubim  at  their  orisons  above  ! 

Pray,  Christian,  pray,  at  the  bonny  peep  of  dawn. 

Ere  the  dew-drop  and  the  spray  that  christen  it  are  gone  ! 

THE   CHIMES   OF   ENGLAND. 

The  chimes,  the  chimes  of  Motherland,  of  England  green  and  ola, 
That  out  from  fane  and  ivied  tower  a  thousand  years  have  tolled ; 
How  glorious  must  their  music  be  as  breaks  the  hallowed  day, 
And  calleth  with  a  seraph's  voice  a  nation  up  to  pray ! 
29 


450  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Those  chimes  that  tell  a  thousand  tales,  sweet  tales  of  olden  time ; 
And  ring  a  thousand  memories  of  vesper  and  at  prime  ! 
At  bridal  and  at  burial,  for  cottager  and  king ; 
Those  chimes,  —  those  glorious  Christian  chimes,  —  how  blessedly 
they  ring ! 

Mrs.  Lowell's  exquisite  poem,  "The  Morning-Glory," 
is  full  of  tenderness.  Listen  to  some  passages  from 
it:  — 

We  wreathed  about  our  darling's  head  the  morning-glory  bright ; 

Her  little  face  looked  out  beneath,  so  full  of  life  and  light, 

So  lit  as  with  a  sunrise,  that  we  could  only  say, 

"  She  is  the  morning-glory  true,  and  her  poor  types  are  they." 

We  used  to  think  how  she  had  come,  even  as  comes  the  flower, 
The  last  and  perfect  added  gift  to  crown  Love's  morning  hour ; 
And  how  in  her  was  imaged  forth  the  love  we  could  not  say, 
As  on  the  little  dew-drops  round  shines  back  the  heart  of  day. 

The  morning-glory's  blossoming  will  soon  be  coming  round  ; 

We  see  the  rows  of  heart-shaped  leaves  upspringing  from    the 

ground ; 
The  tender  things  that  winter  killed  renew  again  their  birth  ; 
But  the  glory  of  our  morning  has  passed  away  from  earth  ! 

In  fitting  companionship  with  the  foregoing,  we  pre- 
sent some  of  the  fine  lines  of  James  Russell  Lowell :  • 

But  all  God's  angels  come  to  us  disguised,  — 
Sorrow  and  sickness,  poverty  and  death, 
One  after  other  lift  their  frowning  masks, 
And  we  behold  the  seraph's  face  beneath. 
All  radiant  with  the  glory  and  the  calm 
Of  having  looked  upon  the  front  of  God. 


God  scatters  love  on  every  side  freely  among  His  children  all, 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide  wherein  some  grains  may 
fall. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  45 1 

There  is  no  wind  but  soweth  seeds  of  a  more  true  and  open  life, 
Wliicli  burst,  unlooked  for,  into  liigh-souled  deeds,  witii  wayside 

beauty  rife. 
We  find  within  these  souls  of  ours  some  wild  germs  of  a  higher 

birth. 
Which  in  the  poet's  tropic  heart  bear  flowers  whose  fragrance  fills 

the  earth. 

Who  is  not  familiar  with  Professor  Longfellow's 
beautiful  "Psalm  of  Life"?  Its  fame  has,  indeed, 
reached  beyond  the  limits  of  the  language  in  which  it 
was  composed ;  for  it  has  been  rendered  into  many 
others,  and  even  the  Chinese,  by  a  Mandarin  ;  a  copy 
of  which  has  been  sent  to  the  author. 

Life  is  real !   Life  is  earnest !    And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
"  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest,"  was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting ;  and  our  hearts,  though  stout  and 

brave, 
Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating  funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle,  in  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  !    Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant !    Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its 

dead ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  present,  heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us  we  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And,  departing,  leave  behind  us  footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ! 

His  "  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine  "  may  be  styled  a 
homily  set  to  music;  w^hile  his  "Resignation,"  "Hymn 
to  Night,"  "  Footsteps  of  Angels,"  and  a  few  others, 
have  become  classic.  So  joyous  and  healthy  a  spirit 
inspires  the  Muse  of  Longfellow,  that  it  is  not  sur- 
prising his  works  should  be  among  the  most  popular 
of  the  age.  Listen  to  some  of  his  beautiful  imagery  :  — 


452  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is  wrought, 
Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought, 

Our  hearts  in  glad  surprise 

To  higher  levels  rise. 
The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 

And  lifts  us  unawares 

Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 


Let  us  be  patient !  these  severe  afflictions  not  from  the  ground 

arise ; 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions  assume  this  dark  disguise. 
We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors  ;  amid  these  earthly 

lamps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad  funereal  tapers  may  be  heaven's  distant 

lamps. 

Longfellow's  "  Suspiria  "  is  a  rare  and  touching  song 
for  the  "  Christian  sleeper  :  "  — 

Take  them,  O  Death  !  and  bear  away  whatever  thou  canst  call  thy 

own : 
Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay,  doth  give  thee  that,  —  but  that 

alone  ! 
Take  them,  O  Grave!   and  let  them  lie  folded  upon  thy  narrow 

shelves. 
As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by,  and  precious  only  to  ourselves. 
Take  them,  O  great  Eternity  !  our  little  life  is  but  a  gust. 
That  bends  the  branches  of-  thy  tree,  and  trails  its  blossoms  in  the 

dust ! 

"  No  English  poet,"  writes  a  recent  London  review- 
er,* "has  equalled  the  tenderness  and  felicity  of  Long- 
fellow, in  his  lyric  and  descriptive  poems.  Their  pop- 
ularity is  marvellous.  What  can  excel  "  The  Psalm 
of  Life"?  It  lives  in  all  our  memories  like  music, 
and  is  repeated  in  pulpit,  platform,  and  parliament, 
with  a  frequency  that  does  not  attend  the  poetry  of  any 
other  writer." 

•  Dr.  Cumming. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  453 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  poems  of  the  age  is 
that  entitled  "Yesterday,  To-day,  and  Forever,"  by 
Rev.  E.  H.  Bickersteth,  of  London.  The  object  of 
the  work,  as  stated  by  the  author,  seems  to  be  to 
awaken  deeper  thought  about  things  ''  unseen  and 
eternal,"  by  combining  some  of  the  pictorial  teachings 
of  the  Divine  Word.  He  says  the  design  of  this  poem 
has  been  laid  up  in  his  heart  for  more  than  twenty 
years,  while  the  execution  of  it  has  occupied  him  only 
about  two  years.  Bold  as  is  the  essay  to  construct  an 
epic,  after  Milton,  and  on  his  subject,  he  has,  in  it, 
according  to  the  English  critics,  achieved  a  great  suc- 
cess.    We  subjoin  the  closing  passage  :  — 

Such  are  the  many  kingdoms  of  God's  realm ; 

And  in  these  boundless  provinces  of  light, 

We,  who  once  suffered  with  a  suffering  Lord, 

Reign  with  Him,  in  His  glory,  unto  each, 

According  to  his  power  and  proven  love, 

His  rule  assigned.     But  Zion  is  our  home  ; 

Jerusalem,  the  City  of  our  God  ! 

O  happy  home  !    O  happy  children  here  ! 

O  blissful  mansions  of  our  Father's  house  ! 

O  walks  surpassing  Eden  for  delight ! 

Here  are  the  harvests  reaped,  once  sown  in  tears ; 

Here  is  the  rest  by  ministry  enhanced  ; 

Here  is  the  banquet  of  the  wine  of  heaven ; 

Riches  of  glory  incorruptible  ; 

Crowns,  amaranthine  crowns  of  victory ; 

The  voice  of  harpers  harping  on  their  harps  ; 

The  anthems  of  the  holy  cherubim  ; 

The  crystal  river  of  the  spirit's  joy; 

The  Bridal  palace  of  the  Prince  of  Peace ; 

The  Holiest  of  Holies  !     God  is  here  ! 

The  following  passage  is  equally  beautiful :  — 
Thus  Heaven  is  gathering  one  by  one,  in  its  capacious  breast, 
All  that  is  pure  and  permanent,  and  beautiful  and  blest ; 
The  family  is  scattered  yet,  though  of  one  home  and  heart, 
Pari  militant  in  earthly  gloom,  in  heavenly  glory  part ; 


454  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

But  who  can  tell  the  rapture,  when  the  circle  is  complete, 
And  all  the  children,  scattered  now,  before  the  Father  meet  ? 
One  fold,  one  Shepherd,  one  employ,  one  universal  home  ! 
"  Lo,  I  come  quickly !  "    Even  so,  "  Amen,  Lord  Jesus,  come ! " 

One  of  the  selectest  and  most  perfect  of  our  modern 
hymns,  is  that  commencing,  — 

My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee, 
Thou  Lamb  of  Calvary, 
Saviour  Divine  ! 

It  is,  as  is  well  known,  the  production  of  Dr.  Ray 
Palmer,  of  New  York,  who  wrote  it  in  1830.  It  was 
not  suggested  by  any  particular  incident ;  but,  in  the 
author's  own  words,  "written  because  it  was  born  in 
his  heart,  and  demanded  expression."  He  adds,  "I 
gave  form  to  what  I  felt,  by  writing,  with  little  effort, 
the  stanzas.  I  recollect  I  wrote  them  with  very  tender 
emotion,  and  ended  the  last  lines  with  tears."  Some 
two  years  afterwards,  the  author  met  his  friend,  Dr. 
Lowell  Mason,  in  Boston,  who  spoke  of  his  projected 
new  Hymn  and  Tune  Book,  and  requested  a  hymn  or 
two  for  his  Collection.  The  author  then  gave  him  a 
copy  of  this  hymn.  Dr.  Mason  seems  to  have  been 
gifted  with  prophetic  vision,  when  he  told  Dr.  Palmer, 
a  few  days  after  he  received  the  hymn,  that  he  would 
be  best  known  to  posterity  as  its  author. 

As  originally  written,  the  hymn  consisted  of  six 
stanzas;  the  first  two  are  omitted,  four  only  being 
given  in  the  Church  Collections.  It  has  been  trans- 
lated into  Arabic,  and  much  used  at  missionary  stations 
in  Turkey.  It  has  not  only  been  translated  into  Tamil, 
but  into  Tahitian,  the  Marratta,  and  will  doubdess  find 
its  way  wherever  the  Bible  has  penetrated, 

There  is  a  litde  incident  connected  with  this  hvmn  : 


MODERN   ENGLISH   AND    AMERICAN.  455 

it  is  as  follows.  During  the  late  insurrection  in  Syria, 
early  one  morning  the  students  of  the  Protestant 
Seminary  were  assembled  for  worship.  Reading  the 
Scriptures  and  prayer  had  passed,  and  they  were  in 
the  act  of  singing  those  lines  of  this  hymn, — 

"  When  griefs  around  me  spread, 
Be  Thou  my  Guide," 

when  they  were  disturbed  by  the  sound  of  firing  in 
the  streets,  and  a  number  of  the  savage  Druzes  rushed 
into  the  chapel. 

The  following  sacred  lyric,  written  by  Dr.  Ray 
Palmer  expressly  for  this  work,  will  not  fail  to  be 
read  with  great  interest.  It  is  entitled  "The  Rock  of 
Ages." 

O  Rock  of  Ages  !  since  on  Thee 

By  grace  my  feet  are  planted, 
'Tis  mine,  in  tranquil  faith,  to  see 

The  rising  storm,  undaunted  ; 
When  angry  billows  round  me  rave. 

And  tempests  fierce  assail  me. 

To  thee  I  cling,  the  terrors  brave. 

For  Thou  canst  never  fail  me  ; 

Though  rends  the  globe  with  earthquake  shock, 

Unmoved  Thou  stand'st,  Eternal  Rock! 

Within  Thy  clefts  I  love  to  hide. 

When  darkness  o'er  me  closes  ; 
There  peace  and  light  serene  abide, 

And  my  stilled  heart  reposes  ; 
My  soul  exults  to  dwell  secure. 

Thy  strong  munitions  round  her  ; 
She  dares  to  count  her  triumph  sure, 

Nor  fears  lest  hell  confound  her; 
Though  tumults  startle  earth  and  sea. 
Thou  changeless  Rock,  they  shake  not  Thee  I 
From  Thee,  O  Rock  once  smitten  !  flow 

Life-giving  streams  for  ever ; 
And  whoso  doth  their  sweetness  know, 

He  henceforth  thirsteth  never  : 


456  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

My  lips  have  touched  the  crystal  tide, 

And  feel  no  more  returning 
The  fever,  that  so  long  I  tried 
To  cool,  yet  felt  still  burning ; 
Ah,  wondrous  Well-Spring  !  brimming  o'er 
With  living  waters  evermore. 

On  that  dread  day  when  they  that  sleep 

Shall  hear  the  trumpet  sounding. 
And  wake  to  praise,  or  wake  to  weep, 

The  judgment-throne  surrounding ; 
When  wrapt  in  all-devouring  flame, 

The  solid  globe  is  wasting, 
And  what  at  first  from  nothing  came 

Is  back  to  nothing  hasting  ; 
E'en  then,  my  soul  shall  calmly  rest, 
O  Rock  of  Ages  !  on  Thy  breast. 

It  has  been  beautifully  said,  that  "true  religion  always 
leads  the  graces  in  her  train."  It  is,  indeed,  to  the 
Christian's  eye  alone  that  intellectual  beauty  reveals 
herself  without  a  veil  and  in  all  her  charms.  The 
worldling  resembles  the  microscope,  which  magnifies 
little  things,  but  cannot  apprehend  great  ones  ;  whereas 
the  Christian,  who  lives  by  faith,  may  be  compared  to 
the  telescope,  bringing  near  things  that  to  the  eye  of 
sense  are  unseen.  Thus  "  the  vision  and  facult}'  divine" 
reveals  itself  in  such  gushes  of  holy  song  as  the  fol- 
lowing :  — 

Since  o'er  Thy  footstool  here  below  such  radiant  gems  are  strown. 
Oh,  what  magnificence  must  glow,  my  God,  about  Thy  throne ! 
So  brilliant  here  these  drops  of  light,  —  there  the  full  ocean  rolls, 
how  bright ! 

If  night's  blue  curtain  of  the  sky,  with  thousand  stars  inwrought, 
Hung  like  a  royal  canopy  with  glittering  diamonds  fraught, 
Be,  Lord,  thy  temple's  outer  veil,  what  splendor  at  the  shrine  must 
dwell ! 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  457 

These  brilliant  stanzas  are  doubtless  at  once  recog- 
nized as  from  the  glowing  pen  of  Dr.  Muhlenburg,  of 
New  York,  whose  untiring  devotion  to  the  Hospital  of 
St.  Luke  has  endeared  his  name  to  the  many  admirers 
of  his  Muse.  His  most  popular  hymn,  "I  would  not 
live  al way,"  was  comprised  in  six  eight-line  stanzas: 
this  last  is  not  given  in  our  church  books :  — 

That  heavenly  music  !  hark,  sweet  in  the  air 
The  notes  of  the  harpers,  how  clear  ringing  there  ! 
And  see,  soft  unfolding  those  portals  of  gold, 
The  King  all  arrayed  in  His  beauty  behold  ! 
Oh,  give  me,  oh,  give  me  the  wings  of  a  dove, 
To  adore  Him,  be  near  Him,  enwrapt  with  His  love: 
I  but  wait  for  the  summons,  I  list  for  the  word, 
Alleluia,  Amen,  evermore  with  the  Lord  ! 

Mr.  Bryant's  poems  are  so  familiar  to  us,  that  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  present  extracts  from  them.  We 
venture  to  give  the  opening  passage  of  his  fine  "Forest 
Hymn:"  — 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learned 

To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave. 

And  spread  the  roof  above  them  ;  ere  he  framed 

The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 

The  sound  of  anthems  ;  —  in  the  darkling  wood, 

Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down. 

And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 

And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 

Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 

Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place. 

And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in  heaven 

Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 

Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 

All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 

His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 

And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 


458  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 

Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?     Let  me,  at  leas^ 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood. 

Offer  one  hymn,  —  thrice  happy,  if  it  find 

Acceptance  in  His  ear. 


So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death. 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  draws  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

Bryant's  "Thanatopsis,"  one  of  his  earliest  and  best 
productions,  closes  with  the  above  solemn  strain  of 
stately  verse.  Washington  Irving  has  the  honor  of 
having  first  introduced  Bryant's  poetry  to  the  British 
public,  with  an  appreciative  estimate  of  its  merit. 
We  now  subjoin,  in  response  to  this,  the  opinions  of 
two  eminent  English  critical  authorities,  of  a  recent 
date :  — 

"We  have  not  a  lyric  poet  superior  to  William  Cullen 
Bryant :  he  is  less  known  to  the  multitude,  but  is  highly 
admired  by  appreciative  minds.  For  terse,  compact, 
and  vigorous  lines,  rich  in  thought  and  reason,  and  in 
music,  he  has  no  living  equal." 

"There  is  no  poet  more  essentially  American, 
whose  genius  is  more  especially  the  product  of  native 
thought  and  culture  than  Bryant.  He  is  the  American 
Wordsworth ;  and  his  name  has  done  for  the  rolling 
prairies  and  boundless  savannahs  of  that  great  con- 
tinent what  Wordsworth  did  for  his  beloved  lake 
country." 


MODERN   ENGLISH   AND    AMERICAN.  459 

E.  W.  Townsend,  a  modern  poet  of  England,  gives 
this  choice  metrical  homily  :  — 

Nothing  in  this  world  is  dumb, 
Or  silent,  if  we  do  but  come 
The  very  inmost  truth  anear, 
And  listen  with  awakened  ear. 

Wisdom  may  we  often  learn 
From  smallest  things  :  a  waving  fern, 
Growing  in  a  shady  place, 
May  be  a  minister  of  grace. 

In  ourselves  the  music  dwells  ; 
From  ourselves  the  music  swells  ; 
By  ourselves  our  hfe  is  fed 
With  sweet  or  bitter  daily  bread. 

These  fine  stanzas  are  by  the  late  N.  P.  Willis  :  — 

The  perfect  world  by  Adam  trod 
Was  the  first  temple  built  by  God  ; 
His  fiat  laid  the  corner-stone, 
And  heaved  its  pillars,  one  by  one. 
He  hung  its  starry  roof  on  high,  — 
The  broad,  illimitable  sky  ; 
He  spread  its  pavement,  green  and  bright, 
And  curtained  it  with  morning  light. 
The  mountains  in  their  places  stood, 
The  sea,  the  sky,  and  "  all  was  good ;  " 
And  when  its  first  pure  praises  rang, 
The  "  morning  stars  together  sang." 

A  happy  union  of  beautiful  sentiment  with  the  music 
of  verse  is  seen  in  this  sweet  lyric,  by  the  Rev.  C.  W. 
Baird,  of  Rye,  N.Y.  :  — 

In  all  the  scenes  of  childhood's  day 
That  memory  paints,  as  years  recede, 
The  beauty  of  a  blessed  deed 
Is  last  to  fade  away. 


460  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

The  guileless  love  that  lasted  long, 

The  zeal  of  piety  unfeigned, 

The  courage  of  a  heart  unstained, 

That  only  feared  the  wrong  ; 

The  lingering  prayer  put  up  at  night, 

Low  bending  by  my  mother's  knee  ; 

The  tear  of  pity,  and  the  glee 

Of  innocent  delight, — 

These  are  the  memories  that  she  brings, 

Kind  guardian  of  mine  earlier  days. 

These  are  the  nightly  thoughts  that  raise 

Mine  eyes  to  holier  things. 

H.  T.  Tuckerman,  our  American  poet  and  essayist, 
has  given  us  some  graceful  and  expressive  stanzas  on 
Palestine,  that  shrine  of  sacred  story  :  — 

Oh  for  a  glance  at  those  wild  hills,  that  round  Jerusalem  arise  ! 
And  one  sweet  evening  by  the  lake  that  gleams  beneath  Judea's 

skies  ! 
How  anthem-like  the  wind  must  sound  in  meadows  of  the  Holy 

Land, 
How  musical  the  ripples  break  upon  the  Jordan's  moonlit  strand  ! 
Behold  the  dew,  like  angels'  tears,  upon  each  thorn  is  gleaming 

now, 
Blest  emblem  of  the  crown  of  love  there  woven  for  the  Sufferer's 

brow ! 
Who  does  not  sigh  to  enter  Nain,  or  in  Capernaum  to  dwell,  — 
Inhale  the  breeze  from  Galilee,  and  rest  beside  Samaria's  well  ? 
Who  would  not  stand  beneath  the  spot  where  Bethlehem's  star  its 

vigil  kept. 
List  to  the  plash  of  Siloa's  pool,  and  kiss  the  ground  where  Jesus 

wept? 
Gethsemane  who  would  not  seek,  and  pluck  a  lily  by  the  way  ? 
Through  Bethany  devoutly  walk,  and  on  the  Mount  of  Olives  pray? 
How  dear  were  one  repentant  night  where  Mary's  tears  of  love  were 

shed! 
How  blest,  beside  the  Saviour's  tomb,  one  hour's  communion  with 

the  dead  ! 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  461 

What  solemn  joy  to  stand  alone  on  Calvary's  celestial  height ! 
Or  kneel  upon  the  mountain-slope,  once  radiant  with  supernal  light! 
I  cannot  throw  my  staff  aside,  nor  wholly  quell  the  hope  divine, 
That  one  delight  awaits  me  yet,  —  a  pilgrimage  to  Palestine. 

Gerald  Massey,  one  of  England's  renowned  self- 
made  poets,  who  has,  through  severe  difficulties, 
achieved  for  himself  an  honorable  position  in  the  lit- 
erary profession,  is  known  best  by  his  glowing  and 
touching  poem  of  "Babe  Christabel,"  a  portion  of 
which  is  annexed  :  — 

In  this  dim  world  of  clouding  cares, 
We  rarely  know,  till  wildered  eyes 
See  white  wings  lessening  up  the  skies, 
The  angels  with  us  unawares. 

Our  beautiful  Bird  of  light  hath  fled  : 

Awhile  she  sat  with  folded  wings, 

Sang  round  us  a  few  hoverings. 

Then  straightway  into  glory  sped  : 

And  white-winged  angels  nurture  her, 

With  heaven's  white  radiance  robed  and  crowned ; 

And  all  love's  purple  glory  round 

She  summers  on  the  Hills  of  Myrrh. 

Strange  glory  streams  through  life's  wild  rents, 

And  through  the  open  door  of  death, 

We  see  the  Heaven  that  beckoneth 

To  the  beloved,  going  hence. 

God's  ichor  fills  the  hearts  that  bleed ; 

The  best  fruit  loads  the  broken  bou^gh  ; 

And  on  the  wounds  our  sufferings  plough. 

Immortal  Love  sows  sovereign  seed. 

Hugh  Stowell,  Canon  of  Chester,  and  Dean  of  Sal- 
ford,  near  Manchester,  is  the  author  of  several  works, 
both  in  prose  and  poetry  ;  and  is  especially  commended 
to  our  present  notice  as  the  writer  of  that  favorite 
hymn,  — 


462  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

From  every  stormy  wind  that  blows, 
From  every  swelling  tide  of  woes, 
There  is  a  calm,  a  sure  retreat,  — 
'Tis  found  beneath  the  mercy-seat. 

That  favorite  hymn,  alike  with  young  and  old, 
"There  is  a  happy  land,"  was  composed  by  Andrew 
Young,  of  Edinburgh,  who  for  many  years  had  occu- 
pied a  high  position  as  an  instructor  of  youth. 

The  fine  hymn,  "All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus' 
name,"  first  appeared  in  1780,  and  was  written  by  the 
Rev.  E.  Perronet,  of  the  English  Episcopal  Church. 
This  hymn  was  altered  by  Mr.  Duncan,  to  whom  its 
authorship  has  been  sometimes  erroneously  asci^bed. 

The  subjoined  extracts  are  from  the  graceful  pen  of 
Alice  Gary,  of  New  York,  whose  volumes  of  sketches, 
in  prose  and  verse,  have  been  so  popular :  — 

I  cannot  plainly  see  the  way,  so  dark  the  grave  is :  but  I  know 
If  I  do  truly  work  and  pray,  some  good  will  brighten  out  of  woe  ; 
For  the  same  hand  that  doth  unbind  the  winter  winds  sends  sweet- 
est showers. 
And  the  poor  rustic  laughs  to  find  his  April  meadows  full  of  flowers. 

Why  should  I  vainly  seek  to  solve  free-will,  necessity,  the  fall  ? 
I  feel,  —  I  know,  —  that  God  is  love,  and,  knowing  this,  I  know  it 
all. 


Bow,  angels,  from  your  glorious  state,  if  e'er  on  earth  you  trod, 
And  lead  me,  through  the  golden  gate  of  prayer,  unto  my  God. 
I  long  to  gather  from  the  Word  the  meaning  full  and  clear, 
To  build  unto  my  gracious  Lord  a  tabernacle  here. 

The  angels  said,  God  giveth  you  His  love,  what  more  is  ours? 
Even  as  the  cisterns  of  the  dew  o'erflow  upon  the  flowers. 
His  grace  descends  ;  and,  as  of  old.  He  walks  with  men  apart, 
Keeping  the  promise,  as  foretold,  with  all  the  pure  in  heart 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  463 

Phoebe  Cary,  of  New  York,  sister  of  the  above,  is 
author  of  many  beautiful  sacred  lyrics;  this,  for  ex- 
ample :  — 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought  comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er,  — 
I'm  nearer  home  to-day  than  I  have  ever  been  before : 
Nearer  my  Father's  house,  where  the  many  mansions  be ; 
Nearer  the  great  white  throne,  nearer  the  jasper  sea  ; 
Nearer  the  bound  of  Hfe,  where  we  lay  our  burdens  down  ; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross,  nearer  gaining  the  crown. 

J.  F.  Clarke,  a  clergyman  of  Boston,  was  3orn  in 
1810 ;  he  wrote  several  popular  works  in  prose  and 
verse ;  amongst  the  latter,  the  following  terse  and 
vigorous  stanzas  :  — 

Father,  to  us,  Thy  children,  humbly  kneeling, 
Conscious  of  weakness,  ignorance,  sin,  and  shame, 
Give  such  a  force  of  holy  thought  and  feeling. 
That  we  may  live  to  glorify  Thy  holy  name  ; 
That  we  may  conquer  base  desire  and  passion, 
That  we  may  rise  from  selfish  thoughts  and  will, 
O'ercome  the  world's  allurement,  threat,  and  fashion, 
Walk  humbly,  gently,  leaning  on  Thee  still. 

Sarah  A.  Miles,  of  Brattleboro',  Vt.,  is  the  author 
of  some  hymns.  One  follows  :  it  is  entitled  "A  Fore- 
taste of  Heaven." 

When  on  devotion's  seraph-wing  the  spirit  soars  above, 
And  feels  Thy  presence.  Father,  Friend,  God  of  eternal  love ! 
The  joys  of  earth,  how  swift  they  fade  before  that  living  ray. 
Which  gives  to  the  rapt  soul  a  glimpse  of  pure  and  perfect  day ! 

One  of  the  sages  of  the  seventeenth  century,  Arthur 
Warwick,  once  said,  "  Life  is  but  my  walk,  and  heaven 
my  home ;  so  that,  travelling  towards  so  pleasant  a 
destination,  the  shorter  the  journey,  the  sooner  the  rest." 
Vainly  we  essay,  meanwhile,  to  peer  into  the  unre 
vealed  and  unattained. 


464  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Not  from  the  flowers  of  earth,  not  from  the  stars, 
Not  from  the  voicing  sea  may  we 
The  secret  wrest  which  bars  our  knowledge  here 
Of  all  we  hope  and  all  that  we  may  fear  —  hereafter. 

We  watch  beside  our  graves,  yet  meet  no  sign 

Of  where  our  dear  ones  dwell.     Ah  !  well. 

Even  now,  your  dead  and  mine  may  long  to  speak 

Of  raptures  it  were  wiser  we  should  seek  — hereafter. 

O  hearts  we  fondly  love  !  O  pallid  lips, 

That  bore  our  farewell  kiss  from  this 

To  yonder  world's  eclipse  !  Do  ye,  safe  home. 

Smile  at  your  earthly  doubts  of  what  would  come  —  hereafter? 

Grand  birthright  of  the  soul,  naught  may  despoil ! 

O  precious,  healing  balm,  to  calm 

Our  lives  in  pain  and  toil !  God's  boon,  that  we 

Or  soon  or  late  shall  know  what  is  to  be  —  hereafter  ! 

This  fine  \yYic  is  by  a  young  lawyer  of  New  York, 
George  Cooper,  who  beguiles  his  professional  studies 
by  such  meditative  musings  as  the  foregoing. 

Mrs.  H.  Beecher  Stowe  is  the  author  of  these  beauti- 
ful stanzas,  on  the  words  "Abide  in  me  :  "  — 

That  mystic  word  of  Thine,  O  Sovereign  Lord  ! 

Is  all  too  pure,  too  high,  too  deep  for  me  : 
Weary  of  striving,  and  with  longing  faint, 

I  breathe  it  back  again  in  prayer  to  Thee  ! 
Abide  in  me !  o'ershadow  by  Thy  love 

Each  half-formed  purpose  and  dark  thought  of  sin ; 
Quench,  ere  it  rise,  each  selfish,  low  desire. 

And  keep  my  soul,  as  Thine,  calm  and  divine. 

As  some  rare  perfume  in  a  vase  of  clay 

Pervades  it  with  a  fragrance  not  its  own, — 
So,  when  Thou  dwellest  in  a  mortal  soul. 

All  Heaven's  own  sweetness  seems  around  it  thrown. 
The  soul  alone,  like  a  neglected  harp. 

Grows  out  of  tune,  and  needs  Thy  hand  divine  : 
Dwell  Tliou  within  it,  tune  and  touch  its  chords, 

Till  every  note  and  string  shall  answer  Thine. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  465 

She  has  these  fine  lines  in  a  poem  entitled  "The 
Other  World:"  — 

It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud,  —  a  world  we  do  not  see  ; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  an  eye  may  bring  us  there  to  be. 

Sweet  hearts  around  us  throb  and  beat,  sweet  helping  hands  are 

stirred, 
And  palpitates  the  veil  between  with  breathings  almost  heard. 

And  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring,  'tis  easy  now  to  see 
How  lovely,  and  how  sweet  a  pass,  the  hour  of  death  may  be;  — 
To  close  the  eye,  and  close  the  ear,  wrapped  in  a  trance  of  bliss, 
And,  gently  drawn  in  loving  arms,  to  swoon  to  that  from  this. 

We  next  present  some  specimen  stanzas  of  our  West- 
ern Muse.  The  first  extract  is  from  a  poem  by  J.  H. 
Perkins  ;  and  the  second,  by  Otway  Curry  :  — 

By  earth  hemmed  in,  by  earth  opprest,  'tis  hard  to  labor,  hard  to 

pray ; 
And  of  the  week,  for  prayer  and  rest,  we've  but  one  Sabbath  day. 
But  purer  spirits  walk  above,  who  worship  alway;  who  are  blest 
With  an  upspringing  might  of  love,  that  makes  all  labor  rest. 
Father  !  while  here,  I  would  arise  in  spirit  to  that  realm  ;  and  there 
Be  every  act  a  sacrifice,  and  every  thought  a  prayer  ! 


We  strive  with  earthly  imagings  to  reach  and  understand 
The  wondrous  and  the  fearful  things  of  an  eternal  land 
We  talk  of  amaranthine  bowers  and  living  groves  of  palm. 
Of  starry  crowns  and  fadeless  flowers  and  skies  for  ever  calm. 
We  talk  of  wings  and  raiment  white,  and  pillared  thrones  of  gold, 
And  cities  built  with  jewels  bright,  far  in  the  heavens,  of  old. 
Are  these  things  more  than  fancy's  play  ?  are  they,  in  very  deed, 
The  free  soul's  guerdon,  far  away,  its  everlasting  meed  ? 
Or  shall  the  spirit,  in  its  flight  beyond  the  stars  sublime. 
See  nothing  but  the  radiance  white  of  never-ending  time  ? 
Shall  things  material  change  again,  and  wholly  be  forgot  ? 
And  round  us  only  God  remain,  a  universe  of  thought  ? 
^o 


466  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

We  know  not  well,  —  we  cannot  know  :  our  reason's  glimmering 

light 
Can  notliing  but  the  darkness  show  of  our  surrounding  night. 
But  soon  the  doubt  and  toil  and  strife  of  earth  shall  all  be  done, 
And  knowledge  of  our  endless  life  be  in  a  moment  won. 

Whittier,  who  has  been  pronounced  by  an  English 
critic,  "the  most  poetic  of  our  American  poets,"  has 
embodied  some  fine  thoughts  in  the  following  beautiful 
lines,  from  a  poem  entitled  "  Our  Master." 

He  cometh  not  a  king  to  reign  ;  the  world's  long  hope  is  dim ; 

The  weary  centuries  watch  in  vain  the  clouds  of  heaven  for  Him. 

Death  comes,  life  goes ;  the  asking  eye  and  ear  are  answerless ; 

The  grave  is  dumb,  the  hollow  sky  is  sad  with  silentness. 

The  letter  fails,  and  systems  fall,  and  every  symbol  wanes ; 

The  Spirit  over  brooding  all,  Eternal  Love,  remains. 

And  not  for  signs  in  heaven  above  or  earth  below,  they  look, 

Who  know,  with  John,  His  smile  of  love,  with  Peter,  His  rebuke 

In  joy  of  inward  peace,  or  sense  of  sorrow  over  sin, 

He  is  His  own  best  evidence,  His  witness  is  within. 

No  fable  old,  nor  mythic  lore,  nor  dream  of  bards  and  seers. 

No  dead  fact  stranded  on  the  shore  of  the  oblivious  years ; 

But  warm,  sweet,  tender,  even  yet  a  present  help  is  He  ; 

And  faith  has  still  its  Olivet,  and  love  its  Galilee. 

The  healing  of  His  seamless  robe  is  by  our  beds  of  pain ; 

We  touch  Him,  in  life's  throng  and  press,  and  we  are  whole  again. 

Through  Him,  the  first  fond  prayers  are  said  our  lips  of  childhood 

frame, 
The  last  low  whispers  of  our  dead  are  burdened  with  His  name. 

O  Love  !  O  Life  !  our  faith  and  sight  Thy  presence  maketh  one  : 
As  through  transfigured  clouds  of  white  we  trace  the  noonday  sun, 
So,  to  our  mortal  eyes  subdued,  flesh-veiled,  but  not  concealed, 
We  know  in  Thee  the  Fatherhood  and  Heart  of  God  revealed ! 
We  faintly  hear,  we  dimly  see,  in  differing  phrase  we  pray; 
But,   dim  or  clear,  we  own   in   Thee  the  Light,  the  Truth,  the 
Way! 

Alone,  O  Love  ineffable  !  Thy  saving  name  is  given  ; 

To  turn  aside  from  Thee  is  hell ;  to  walk  with  Thee  is  heaven ! 


MODERN   ENGLISH   AND   AMERICAN.  467 

Our  Friend,  our  Brother,  and  our  Lord,  what  may  Thy  service  be  ? 
Nor  name,  nor  form,  nor  ritual  word,  but  simply  following  Thee  ! 

Thy  litanies,  sweet  offices  of  love  and  gratitude  ; 

Thy  sacramental  liturgies,  the  joy  of  doing  good  : 

In  vain  shall  waves  of  incense  drift  the  vaulted  nave  around, 

In  vain  the  minster- turret  lift  its  brazen  weights  of  sound  : 

The  heart  must  ring  the  Christmas  bells,  the  inward  altars  raise  ; 

Its  faith  and  hope  thy  canticles,  and  its  obedience  praise  ! 

From  a  splendid  poem,  entitled  "The  Death  of 
Jacob,"  by  the  Rev.  William  Alexander,  M.A.  (being 
the  poem  to  which  an  "  Accessit"  was  awarded  by  the 
judges  of  the  best  poem  on  a  sacred  subject,  in  the 
University  of  Oxford,  June  i,  1857)  :  — 

I  saw  the  Syrian  sunset's  meteor-crown 

Hang  over  Bethel  for  a  little  space  ; 
I  saw  a  gentle  wandering  boy  lie  down, 

With  tears  upon  his  face. 

Sheer  up  the  fathomless,  transparent  blue, 
Rose  jasper-battlement  and  crystal  wall : 

Rung  all  the  night-air,  pierced  through  and  through 
With  harps  angelical. 

And  a  great  ladder  was  set  up  the  while 

From  earth  to  heaven,  with  angels  on  each  round : 

Barks,  that  bore  precious  freight  to  earth's  far  isle, 
Or  sailed  back  homeward  bound. 

Ah  !  many  a  time  we  look  on  star-lit  nights 

Up  to  the  sky,  as  Jacob  did  of  old, 
Look  longing  up  to  the  eternal  lights. 

To  spell  their  lines  of  gold. 

But  never  more,  as  to  the  Hebrew  boy. 
Each  on  his  way,  the  angels  walk  abroad ; 

And  never  more  we  hear,  with  awful  joy, 
The  audible  voice  of  God. 

Yet  to  pure  eyes  the  ladder  still  is  set, 

And  angel  visitants  still  come  and  go ; 
Many  bright  messengers  are  moving  yet 

From  the  dark  world  below. 


468  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Thoughts  that  are  red-crossed  Faith's  outspreading  wings  ; 

Prayers  of  the  Church  aye  keeping  time  and  tryst ; 
Heart-wishes,  making  bee-like  murmurings, 

Their  flower  the  Eucharist ; 

Spirits  elect,  through  suffering  rendered  meet 
For  those  high  mansions ;  from  the  nursery  door 

Bright  babes  that  climb  up  with  their  clay-cold  feet, 
Unto  the  golden  floor. 

These  are  the  messengers,  for  ever  wending 

From  earth  to  heaven,  that  Faith  alone  may  scan ; 

These  are  the  angels  of  our  God,  ascending 
Upon  the  Son  of  man. 

How  beautiful  are  the  following  stanzas :  — 

Rests  he  now  well,  whose  pilgrim  staiT  and  shoon 
Lie  in  his  tent ;  for  on  the  golden  street 

They  walk,  and  stumble  not,  on  roads  star-strewn, 
With  their  unsandalled  feet  1 

Rests  he  not  well,  who  keepeth  watch  and  ward, 
In  sweet  possession  of  the  land  loved  most. 

Till,  marshalled  by  the  angel  of  the  Lord, 
Shall  come  the  Heaven-sent  host? 

Who  has  not  felt  in  some  dear  churchyard  spot, 
When  evening's  pencil  shades  the  pale-gold  sky,— 

Here  at  the  closing  of  my  life's  calm  lot. 
Here  would  I  love  to  lie  ; 

Here  where  the  poet-thrush  so  often  pours 
His  requiem  hidden  in  green  aisles  of  lime, 

And  bloody-red  along  the  sycamores 
Creepeth  the  summer  time  ; 

Where,  through  tlie  ruined  church's  broken  walls 
Glimmers  all  night  the  vast  and  solemn  sea, 

As  through  our  broken  hopes  the  brightness  falls 
Of  our  eternity .'' 

But,  when  we  die,  we  rest  far,  far  away, 

Not  over  us  the  lime-trees  lift  their  bowers  ; 

And  the  young  sycamores  their  shadows  sway 
O'er  graves  that  are  not  ours. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  469 

Yet  he  is  happy,  wheresoe'er  he  He, 

Round  whom  the  purple  cahns  of  Eden  spread, 

Who  sees  his  Saviour  with  the  heart's  pure  eye, — 
He  is  the  happy  dead ! 

Sir  Edward  Denny,  of  England,  is  a  writer  on 
prophecy,  and  author  of  some  excellent  hymns  on 
the  subject  of  the  Second  Advent,  and  other  sacred 
themes.     Here  are  a  few  lines  from  his  pen  :  — 

Sweet  was  the  hour,  O  Lord !  to  Thee,  at  Sychar's  lonely  well, 
When  a  poor  outcast  heard  Thee,  there  Thy  great  salvation  tell ! 

There  Jacob's  erring  daughter  found  those  streams  unknown  before, 
The  water-brooks  of  life,  that  made  the  weary  thirst  no  more  ! 

Anna  Shipton,  whose  numerous  hymns  and  devo- 
tional lyrics  have  been  so  widely  esteemed,  seems  to 
be  one  of  the  divine  order  of  suffering  humanity,  for 
her  sweet  music  has  had  its  birth  in  the  chamber  of 
sorrow.     Listen  to  her  melodious  numbers  :  — 

I  heard  the  wavelet  kiss  the  shore,  ere  lost  within  the  sea, 
And  the  ripple  of  the  silvery  tide  seemed  as  a  psalm  to  me : 
Contented  with  God's  holy  will,  its  feeble  voice  to  raise. 
To  hymn  His  glory,  and  be  lost,  nor  thirst  for  human  praise. 
Lord,  make  me,  hke  the  ocean's  voice,  obedient  to  Thy  will : 
Thy  purpose  work  as  faithfully,  and  at  Thy  word  be  still. 

I  marked  the  soft  dew  silently  descend  o'er  plain  and  hill, 

On  each  parched  herb  and  drooping  flower  the  heavenly  cloud 

distil. 
As  noiseless  as  the  sun's  first  beams,  it  vanished  with  the  day ; 
But  the  waving  fields  told  where  it  fell,  when  the  dew  had  passed 

away. 
Lord,  make  me  like  the  gentle  dew,  that  other  hearts  may  prove, 
E'en  through  Thy  feeblest  messenger,  Thy  ministry  of  love  ! 


I  am  waiting  as  the  day  wanes,  waiting 
The  Hght  of  the  coming  dawn  to  see  ; 

As  the  weary  child  lies  watching  for  its  mother, 
I  am  longing,  O  my  Lord  Christ,  for  Thee  ! 


470  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Down  here,  the  shadow  and  the  sadness, 

The  conflict  with  the  foe  in  fierce  array; 
Up  there,  the  joy  of  sinless  service, 
Never  to  pass  away ! 

I  am  waiting  in  the  noontide,  waiting 
A  gleam  of  the  promised  cloud  to  see, 

That  shall  bring  to  us  the  brightness  of  Thy  glory; 
I  am  longing,  O  my  Lord  Christ,  for  Thee  ! 

Down  here,  the  tempter  still  accusing, 
And  wiles  that  unwary  feet  betray ; 

Up  there,  the  smile  of  my  Beloved, 
Never  to  pass  away  ! 


Oh  for  my  home  of  glory,  that  death's  dark  veil  enshrouds, 
It  gleams  in  beauty  o'er  me,  as  day  dawns  from  the  clouds. 
Bright  are  the  hopes  we  borrow  from  joys  that  cannot  wane ; 
To-day  we  weep,  to-morrow  brings  sunshine  after  rain. 

My  soul  is  often  weary,  weary  of  self  and  sin  ; 
Often  the  way  seems  dreary,  oft  sinking  fears  within. 
But  while  on  Jesus  gazing,  each  fiery  dart  is  vain  ; 
My  soul  alike  is  praising  for  sunshine  after  rain. 

The  beautiful  Christian  lyrics  of  Miss  A.  L.  Waring, 
of  Neath,  Wales,  are  characterized  by  pure  and  ele- 
vated sentiment  and  felicitous  expression.  Her  hymns 
are  universally  admired  for  their  spiritual  beauty  and 
earnest  expression  of  Christian  experience.  We  all 
remember  that  favorite  hymn,  "Father,  I  know  that 
all  my  life,"  &c.  Here  are  two  other  poems,  les<« 
familiar :  — 

Love  shall  teach  us,  while  on  Him  we  lean, 

That  in  the  certainty  of  coming  bliss, 
We  may  be  yearning  for  a  world  unseen. 

Yet  wear  our  beautiful  array  in  this. 
Ours  be  a  loyal  love  for  service  tried. 

To  show,  by  deeds,  and  words,  and  looks  that  cheer. 
How  He  can  bless  the  scene  in  which  He  died 

And  fill  His  house  with  glory  even  here. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  47  T 

Some,  in  their  sorrow,  may  not  know 

How  near  their  feet  those  waters  glide,  — 
How  peaceful  fruits  for  healing  grow, 

And  flowers  for  beauty,  by  their  side : 
They  may  not  see,  with  weeping  eyes 

Upon  the  dreary  desert  bent, 
How  glorious,  straight  before  them,  lies 

The  Eden  of  their  soul's  content. 

"You  will  excuse  me,  if  I  ask  you  to  look  out  tor 
the  sunlight  the  Lord  sends  into  your  days,"  said  a 
deep  thinker ;  and  very  needful  is  the  precept.  We 
are  so  apt  to  note  the  dark  days,  rather  than  those 
more  common  days  of  sunshine.  And  it  is  one  of  the 
distinguishing  characteristics  of  a  Christian,  that  he 
abounds  in  thanksgivings. 

The  beautiful  hymn,  "Jesus,  I  my  cross  have 
taken,"  the  authorship  of  which  has  been  erroneously 
attributed  to  Montgomery,  and  others,  was  written  by 
Lyte,  in  1833.  The  concluding  stanzas  are  vigorous 
and  terse  : 

Take,  my  soul,  thy  full  salvation  !  rise  o'er  sin  and  fear  and  care ; 

Joy  to  find  in  every  station  something  still  to  do  or  bear. 

Think  what  Spirit  dwells  within  thee,  what  a  Father's  smile  is 

thine, 
What  a  Saviour  died  to  win  thee :  child  of  heaven,  shouldst  thou 

repine  ? 
Haste  then  on  from  grace  to  glory,  armed  by  faith,  and  winged  by 

prayer ; 
Heaven's  eternal  day's  before  thee,  God's  own  hand  shall  guide 

thee  there. 
Soon  shall  close  thy  earthly  mission,  swift  shall  pass  thy  pilgrim 

days  ; 
Hope  soon  change  to  full  fruition,  faith  to  sight,  and  prayer  to 

praise  ! 

Lyte,  whose  Christian  lyrics  have  become  familiar 
to  most  readers  of  sacred  verse,  was  born  at  Kelso, 


472  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

1793  ;  and  had  to  struggle  hard  for  the  benefit  of  a  Hb- 
eral  education.  While  tending  a  dying-bed,  his  heart 
was  quickened  into  spiritual  life  :  although  his  arduous 
and  self-denying  labors  for  the  sick  and  bereaved  su- 
perinduced consumption  in  his  own  case.  After  travel- 
ling some  time  on  the  Continent  in  quest  of  health,  he 
settled  in  the  quiet  little  town  of  Marazion,  on  the 
shore  of  the  beautiful  bay  of  Mount  St.  Michael,  in 
Cornwall.  Here  he  married;  and  finally  fixed  his 
abode  at  the  parish  of  Brixham,  at  which  place  he 
wrote  most  of  his  hymns,  so  remarkable  for  their  pure 
Christian  sentiment  and  simplicity  of  diction.  Some 
of  them  were  written  "  from  under  the  cloud ; "  for 
example  this,  — 

My  spirit  on  Thy  care,  Blest  Saviour,  I  recline  ; 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  me  to  despair,  for  Thou  art  Love  divine  ! " 

The  autumn  of  1847  was  approaching,  and  he  must 
needs  take  his  last  journey  to  the  genial  south.  "They 
tell  me,"  sa3's  he,  "that  the  sea  is  injurious  to  me.  I 
hope  not ;  for  I  know  of  no  divorce  I  should  more  de- 
precate than  from  the  lordly  ocean.  From  childhood 
it  has  been  my  friend  and  playmate,  and  never  have  I 
been  weary  of  gazing  on  its  glorious  face."  He  did 
go,  never  to  return.  Before  he  went,  he  wished 
to  preach  once  more  to  his  people.  He  preached  on 
the  "Holy  Communion,"  and  it  was  solemnly  signifi- 
cant to  hear  him  say,  "  O  brethren !  I  can  speak 
feelingly,  experimentally,  on  this  point ;  and  I  stand 
here  among  you  seasonably  to-day,  as  alive  from  the 
dead,  if  I  may  hope  to  impress  it  upon  you,  and 
induce  you  to  prepare  for  that  solemn  hour  which 
must    come   to    all,  by  a  timely    acquaintance   with, 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  473 

appreciation  of,  dependence  on,  the  death  of  Christ !  " 
This  was  his  last  appeal.  And  for  the  last  time,  he 
dispensed  the  sacred  elements  to  his  sorrowing  flock ; 
and  then,  exhausted  with  his  effort,  he  retired  with  a 
soul  in  sweet  repose  on  that  Christ  whom  he  had 
preached  with  his  dying  breath ;  and,  as  the  evening 
drew  on,  he  handed  to  a  near  and  dear  relative  these 
undying  verses,  together  with  his  own  adapted  music 
for  the  hymn,  — 

Abide  with  me  !     Fast  falls  the  eventide  ; 
The  darkness  deepens  ;  Lord,  with  me  abide  ! 
When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  oh,  abide  with  me  ! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life's  little  day ; 
Earth's  joys  grow  dim  ;  its  glories  pass  away; 
Change  and  decay  in  all  around,  I  see  ; 
O  Thou  who  changest  not,  abide  with  me  ! 

"This  was  his  last  h3^mn  upon  earth.  He  reached 
Nice,  and  there  his  spirit  entered  into  rest.  He  pointed 
upwards  in  passing,  and  murmured  softly,  '  Peace, 
joy ! '  while  his  face  brightened  into  smiles,  as  the 
shadow  of  his  last  cloud  melted  before  the  '  Light  of 
Life!'"* 

Few  indeed,  if  any,  of  modern  h3^mns  have  equalled 
that  true  song  of  the  heart,  by  Sarah  F.  Adams,  of 
Dorsetshire,  England,  commencing,  "Nearer,  my  God, 
to  Thee,  —  nearer  to  Thee."  She  was  a  person  of 
"strong  sensibility  and  deep  religious  earnestness." 
She  died  in  1849,  after  protracted  illness ;  "  almost 
her  last  breath,"  it  is  stated,  "passed  away  in  uncon- 
scious song."  One  of  her  hymns,  less  familiar  to  us, 
begins  thus :  — 

*  Christophers. 


474  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

He  sendeth  sun,  He  sendeth  shower, 
Alike  they're  needful  for  the  flower ; 
And  joys  and  tears  alike  are  sent 
To  give  the  soul  fit  nourishment. 
As  comes  to  me,  or  cloud  or  sun. 
Father,  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done  ! 

One  of  the  divinest  of  heart-utterances  in  song  that 
modern  times  have  bestowed  upon  us  is  that  world- 
renowned  hymnic  prayer,  — 

Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea. 
But  that  Thy  blood  was  shed  for  me. 
And  that  Thou  bidst  me  come  to  Thee, — 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  ! 

The  cherished  name  of  its  author,  Charlotte  Elliott, 
will  not  easily  be  lost  to  the  Church  ;  for  a  sympathetic 
chord  has  been  struck  in  this  beautiful  lyric,  which 
must  ever  quicken  into  spiritual  accord  the  heart  of 
the  Christian.  The  plaintive  melody  of  the  refrain 
cannot  but  awaken  a  responsive  echo  in  every  devout 
soul ;  as  the  sad  notes  of  some  lone  bird  are  caught 
up  and  repeated  amid  the  stillness  of  the  sylvan  soli- 
tude. This  sweet  singer  is  beautifully  said  to  be 
"a  lover  of  nature,  a  lover  of  souls,  and  a  lover  of 
Christ." 

The  hymn  commencing,  "  My  God,  my  Father,  while 
I  stray,"  was  written  in  1834.  Another  popular  hymn 
of  hers  begins  :  — 

My  God,  is  any  hour  so  sweet,  from  blush  of  morn  to  evening  star, 
As  that  which  calls  me  to  Thy  feet,  —  the  hour  of  prayer  ? 
Blest  is  that  tranquil  hour  of  morn,  and  blest  that  hour  of  solemn  eve, 
When,  on  the  wmgs  of  prayer  upborne,  the  world  I  leave. 

One  more  exquisite  lyric  from  her  pen  we  subjoin : 


MODERN   ENGLISH   AND    AMERICAN.  475 

Thou  glorious  Sun  of  Righteousness, 

On  this  day  risen  to  set  no  more  ; 
Shine  on  me  now  to  heal  and  bless, 

With  milder  beams  than  e'er  before. 
Shine  on  thy  work  of  grace  within, 

On  each  celestial  blossom  there  ; 
Destroy  each  bitter  root  of  sin, 

And  make  Thy  garden  fresh  and  fair. 
Shine  on  Thy  pure,  eternal  word, 

Its  mysteries  to  my  soul  reveal ; 
And  whether  read,  remembered,  heard, 

Oh,  let  it  quicken,  strengthen,  heal. 
Shine  on  those  unseen  things  displayed 

To  faith's  illuminated  eye  ; 
And  let  their  splendor  cast  a  shade 

On  every  earthly  vanity. 

As  a  fitting  counterpart  and  companion  to  Miss  El- 
liott's beautiful  effusion  is  that  written  by  Rev.  R.  S. 
Cook,  of  New  York:  it  was  sent  by  the  author  to 
Miss  Elliott,  and  has  since  been  incorporated  into  Sir 
R.  Palmer's  Collection. 

Just  as  thou  art,  without  one  trace 
Of  love  or  joy  or  inward  grace, 
Or  meetness  for  the  heavenly  place,  — 
O  guilty  sinner,  come  ! 

Burdened  with  guilt,  wouldst  thou  be  blest  ? 
Trust  not  the  world,  it  gives  no  rest : 
I  bring  relief  to  hearts  oppressed,  — 
O  weary  sinner,  come  ! 

Come,  leave  thy  burden  at  the  cross, 

Count  all  thy  gains  but  empty  dross  : 

My  grace  repays  all  earthly  loss,  — 

O  needy  sinner,  come  ! 

Come,  hither  bring  thy  boding  fears. 
Thy  aching  heart,  thy  bursting  tears, 
'Tis  mercy's  voice  salutes  thine  ears,  — 
O  trembling  sinner,  come  ! 


476  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

There  is  a  VVordsworthian  simplicity  and  touching 
beauty  about  the  following  sweet  lyric,  that  every  one 
will  admit  on  its  perusal,  while  to  those  who  have  lost 
little  children  it  will  have  a  special  interest :  — 

A  little  child,  six  summers  old,  so  thoughtful  and  so  fair, 

There  seemed  about  her  pleasant  ways  a  more  than  childish  air, 

Was  sitting  one  sweet  summer  eve  beneath  a  spreading  tree. 

Intent  upon  an  ancient  book  that  lay  upon  her  knee. 

She  turned  each  page  with  careful  hand,  and  strained  her  sight  to 

see, 
Until  the  drowsy  shadows  slept  upon  the  grassy  lea  ; 
Then  closed  the  book,  and  upward  looked,  and  straight  began  to 

sing 
A  simple  verse  of  hopeful  love,  this  very  childish  thing  : 
"  While  here  below,  how  sweet  to  know  His  wondrous  love  and 

story  ; 
And  then,  through  grace,  to  see  His  face,  and  live  with  Him  in 

glory  ! " 
That  little  child,  one  dreary  night  of  winter  wind  and  storm. 
Was  tossing  on  a  weary  couch  her  weak  and  wasted  form  ; 
And  in  her  pain,  and  in  its  pause,  but  clasped  her  hands  in  prayer 
(Strange  that  we  had  no  thoughts  of  heaven   while  hers  were  only 

there), 
Until  she  said  :  "  O  mother  dear,  how  sad  you  seem  to  be  ! 
Have  you  forgotten  that  He  said,  '  Let  children  come  to  me'  ? 
Dear  mother,  bring  the  blessed  Book  ;  come,  mother,  let  us  sing." 
And  then  again,  with  faltering  tongue,  she  sung  that  cliildish  thing : 
"While  here  below,  how  sweet  to  know  His  wondrous  love  and 

story ; 
And  then,  through  grace,  to  see   His  face,  and  live  with  Him  in 

glory ! " 
Underneath  a  spreading  tree  a  narrow  mound  is  seen, 
Which  first  was  covered  by  the  snow,  then  blossomed  into  green . 
Here  first  I  lieard  that  childish  voice  that  sings  on  earth  no  more, 
In  heaven  it  hath  a  richer  tone,  and  sweeter  than  before : 
"  For  those  who  know  His  love  below,"  so  runs  the  wondrous 

story, 
"  In  heaven,  through  grace,  shall  see  His  face,  and  dwell  with  Him 

in  glory ! " 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  477 

J.  H.  Abrahall,  one  of  the  living  English  poets,  is 
author  of  the  following  :  — 

VIA,    VERITAS,    VITA. 

Hast  thou  been  lured  by  pleasure  gay 
From  the  straight  heavenward  path  to  stray  ? 
Seek  Christ !  In  Him  thou  find'st  the  Way/ 

Fain  wouldst  thou,  in  the  pride  of  youth, 
The  heights  of  knowledge  climb  forsooth  ? 
At  Christ's  feet  sit  thou  !    He  is  Truth  ! 

Dost  tremble  at  the  soul's  stern  strife 
'Mid  world  with  deadly  dangers  rife  ? 
Let  Christ  dwell  in  thee  !    He  is  Life/ 

In  reflecting  upon  the  multitudinous  array  of  sacred 
lyrics  that  have  passed  under  our  review,  and  which 
do  not  afford  even  an  approximate  idea  of  their  vast 
numerical  extent,  we  are  amazed  at  their  prodigious 
numbers.*  How  much  more  should  we  wonder,  could 
we  know  the  yet  greater  number  of  those  silent  ones, 
the  music  of  whose  souls  has  remained  all  unsung, 
and  died  with  them.  Dr.  O.  Wendell  Holmes  has 
made  this  thought  the  subject  of  one  of  the  most 
delicious  lyrics  in  the  language.  So,  gentle  reader, 
if  you  have  not  met  with  it,  you  shall  no  longer  be 
deprived  of  an  intellectual  pleasure ;  and  if  you  have 
read  it,  it  will  bear  repeating.     Here  it  is  :  — 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest,  where  the  sweet  wailing  singers 

slumber. 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast  the  wild  flowers  who  will  stoop 

to  number  ? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string,  and  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win 

them: 
Alas,  for  those  that  never  sing,  and  die  with  all  their  music  in 

them ! 

•  Ge.rn-'any  alone  boasts  of  having  nearly  one  hundred  thousand  hymns. 


478  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone  whose  song  has  told  their  hearts' 

sad  story, — 
Weep  for  the  voiceless  who  have  known  the  cross,  without  the 

crown  of  glory ! 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep  o'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted 

billow, 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep  on  nameless  sorrow's 

churchyard  pillow. 
O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign,  save  whitening  lip  and  fading 

tresses. 
Till  death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine,  slow-dropped  from  misery's 

crushing  presses, — 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord  to  every  hidden  pang  were 

given. 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured,  as  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as 
•"heaven ! 

Endless,  indeed,  have  been  those  melodies  which 
have  made  musical  the  saddened  hours  of  the  Past. 
Like  the  innumerable  sermons  and  homilies,  they 
prove  the  inexhaustibility  of  the  Bible  ;  for  the  essence 
of  both  homilies  and  hymns  is  derived  therefrom. 
And,  like  "the  non-inventibility  of  Christ,"  —  to  quote 
the  expressive  phrase  of  Lavater,  —  this  indefea- 
sible usufruct  of  the  Sacred  Oracles  proves  their 
Divinity. 

The  grand  concert  of  Christian  singers  rehears- 
ing to  us  the  many-hued  experiences  of  earthly  life, 
with  its  conflicts  and  its  cares,  its  aspirations  and 
its  faith  and  hope,  —  is  the  legacy  of  the  Church 
catholic.  Their  many-toned  voices  fall  upon  the  ear 
like  sweetest  melody,  and  stir  the  heart  with  new 
singing,  and  reinforce  our  faltering  faith.  The  re- 
sponse of  the  Church  militant  seems  to  a\\^aken  the 
response  of  the  ecstatic  harmonics  of  the  Church 
triumphant. 


ELEVENTH    EVENING. 


RECENT   AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH; 


INCLUDING    NOTICES    OF    SOME   CELEBRATED    HVMNS    NOT   GIVEN    IN   THE   FIRST   EDITION 
OF   THIS  WORK. 


ELEVENTH    EVENING. 


RECENT  AMERICAN   AND   ENGLISH. 

"\ /TORE  than  a  decade  of  years  has  passed  since  we 
•^^^  closed  our  silent  colloquy  with  the  goodly  com- 
pany of  Christian  minstrels  who  had  been  delighting 
us  with  many  an  — 

Holy  chant  and  choral  hymn, — 
Praise-notes  fit  for  seraphim  ; 

and  the  stream  of  sacred  song  has  been  still  flowing  on 
in  all  its  sweetness  and  music.  Some  voices  have  been 
hushed,  some  harps  unstrung;  but  others  have  taken 
up  their  tireless  theme,  and  attuned  their  instruments 
anew.  Although  the  voices  are  many,  they  blend  into 
richest  harmony,  —  portraying  in  plaintive  numbers  the 
conflicts  and  sorrows,  and  anon,  in  exultant  strains,  the 
heroic  conquests  and  triumphs,  of  the  Christian  life. 
Nor  have  the  songs  of  Zion  in  our  day  lost  any  of  their 
inspiration  or  pristine  power.  We,  indeed,  meet  with 
many  a  quaint  quatrain  or  sweet  stanza  charged  with 
soothing  and  inspiring  power  among  these  later  singers 
of  the  Church.  The  charm  that  belongs  to  these  gifted 
utterances  is  potent  to  beguile  the  heart  of  its  sorrow, 
and  to  enkindle  in  the  bosom  the  glow  and  warmth  of  a 
new  life. 

31 


482       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

It  has  been  well  said,  that  "  it  is  by  faith  that  poe- 
try, as  well  as  devotion,  soars  above  this  dull  earth ;  and 
that  through  the  brightness  of  its  prophetic  visions  it 
helps  faith  to  lay  hold  on  the  future  life."  These  sacred 
lyrics  may  be  called  heart-utterances ;  and  they  find 
ready  response  in  their  delineation  of  Christian  expe- 
rience. When  sorrow-laden,  many  a  time  they  light  up 
the  eye  with  joy  and  gladness,  or  bring  tears,  as  they 
tell  of  past  hours  "  which  memory  uproots  with  a  scent 
of  dead  flowers."  To  how  many  have  these  "  songs  in 
the  night"  been  found  to  grow — 

Mellower  as  earth's  hours  fly, 
Blending  with  the  chorus  of  the  saints  on  high, 

Lowell  justly  remarks  that  "  Poesy  broods  over  all  life, 
like  the  calm  blue  sky,  with  its  motherly,  rebuking 
face.  She  is  the  great  reformer;  and  where  the  love  of 
her  is  strong  and  healthy,  wickedness  and  wrong  cannot 
long  prevail."  In  the  highest  and  best  sense,  she  is  the 
handmaid  of  Devotion.  Or,  as  it  has  been  poetically 
stated  by  Tuckerman,  "  as  the  falcon  launched  trustingly 
heavenward  is  lost  to  view,  the  course  of  the  higher 
poetry  often  soars  beyond  the  ken  of  the  multitude ; 
and  as  the  humble  birds  carol  blithely  round  our  dwell- 
ings, so  the  meeker  lays  of  the  muse  linger  tunefully 
about  the  heart." 

""  Religion,"  it  has  been  beautifully  said,  "  is  the  final 
centre  of  repose,  —  the  goal  to  which  all  things  tend; 
apart  from  which  man  is  a  shadow,  his  very  existence 
a  riddle,  and  the  stupendous  scenes  of  nature  which 
surround  him  as  unmeaning  as  the  leaves  which  the 
sibyl  scattered  to  the  wind."  Napoleon  is  reported  to 
have    uttered  a  somewhat   similar   statement,   namely: 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  483 

"  The  nature  of  Christ's  existence  is  mysterious,  I  admit ; 
but  this  mystery  meets  the  wants  of  men.  Reject  it,  and 
the  world  is  an  inexpHcable  riddle;  beUeve  it,  and  the 
history  of  our  race  is  satisfactorily  explained." 

"  Sorrow,  rightly  applied  and  improved,"  it  has  been 
said,  "  clarifies  the  soul,  and  reveals  to  us  ourselves." 
As  self-knowledge  is  a  science  but  seldom  pursued  in 
these  days,  this  unwelcome  visitant  ought  to  be  regarded 
as  a  messenger  of  mercy  and  a  real  benefactor. 

Sorrow,  touched  by  Him,  grows  bright 

With  more  than  rapturous  ray, 
As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  of  light 

We  ne'er  could  see  by  day. 
Sorrow  will  melt  the  selfish  heart 

And  subjugate  the  will, 
So  that  we  shall,  at  least  in  part, 

The  "  royal  law  "  fulfil. 

'"  Do  not  keep  the  alabaster  boxes  of  your  love  and 
tenderness  sealed  up  until  your  friends  are  dead.  Fill 
their  lives  with  sweetness.  Speak  approving,  cheering 
words  while  their  ears  can  hear  them,  and  while  their 
hearts  can  be  thrilled  and  made  happier  by  them ;  the 
kind  things  you  mean  to  say  when  they  are  gone,  say 
before  they  go.  The  flowers  you  mean  to  send  for  their 
coffins,  send  to  brighten  and  sweeten  their  homes  before 
they  leave  them." 

"'  Or  let  us  remember  that  the  Fatherhood  of  God  in- 
volves the  brotherhood  of  man,  and  act  out  the  sugges- 
tion of  one  of  its  noblest  singers,  whose  words  of  counsel 
are:  — 

*' '  Make  channels  for  the  streams  of  love 
Where  they  may  broadly  run; 
And  love  has  overflowing  streams 
To  fill  them  every  one. 


484       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

For  we  must  share,  if  we  would  keep, 

That  blessing  from  above  : 
Ceasing  to  give,  we  cease  to  have,  — 

Such  is  the  law  of  love.'  "  * 

"Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds  our  hearts  in  Christian  love." 

That  beautiful  Christian  lyric  owes  its  existence  to  the 
following  incident.  Its  author,  —  the  Rev.  Dr.  Faw- 
cett,  of  Wainsgate,  England,  —  after  having  sustained 
his  church  relationship  for  seven  years,  was  invited  to 
visit  London  and  preach  for  the  celebrated  Dr.  Gill, 
whose  declining  health  made  him  desirous  of  resign- 
ing his  pastoral  charge.  The  visit  and  preaching  of 
the  former  gave  so  much  satisfaction  to  the  society, 
that  an  earnest  and  unanimous  invitation  to  him  to  be- 
come Dr.  Gill's  successor  was  the  result.  The  church 
at  Wainsgate  was  comparatively  small  and  poor,  that 
at  London  was  large  and  wealthy ;  it  was  not  strange, 
therefore,  that  the  call  should  have  been  accepted. 
Accordingly,  Dr.  Fawcett  announced  the  fact  to  his 
friends  at  Wainsgate,  preached  his  farewell  sermon,  and 
had  his  household  goods  packed  for  transmission  to 
his  new  sphere  of  clerical  duty ;  when  his  faithful  flock 
evinced  such  profound  sorrow  at  the  proposed  separa- 
tion, that  the  worthy  pastor,  unable  to  withstand  their 
earnest  entreaties,  actually  abandoned  the  enterprise, 
saying,  "  I  will  not  leave  you,  but  we  will  still  labor 
for  the  Lord  lovingly  together."  The  generous  act  of 
self-denial  on  his  part  produced,  as  might  be  supposed, 
such  an  enthusiastic  response  from  his  people  as  deeply 
to  affect  his  heart;  and  he  went  home  and  recorded  his 
emotions  in  these  imperishable  lines.     The  latter  days 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  485 

of  this  excellent  man  were  beclouded  with  occasional 
trials  and  afflictions,  and  his  faith  seems  to  have  been 
sorely  tried;  as,  indeed,  some  of  his  hymns  indicate, 
such  as  the  following:  — 

O  God  !  my  Helper,  ever  near, 
and. 

Thus  far  my  God  has  led  me  on. 

Some  hymns,  like  the  first  referred  to,  seem  to  possess 
a  sort  of  weird  power,  —  invoking,  as  by  incantation, 
persons  and  scenes,  long  since  forgotten,  to  a  new  life. 
This  old  favorite  hymn,  —  "  Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds," 
—  sung  by  voices  that  once  mingled,  it  may  be,  with  our 
own,  around  the  memorial  supper  of  the  Lord,  but  since 
silent  in  the  tomb,  —  seems  to  reanimate  the  sleepers 
and  bring  them  once  more  to  our  embrace. 

There  is  another  hymn,  also  a  great  favorite  in  social 
worship,  beginning,  — 

Lord,  I  hear  of  showers  of  blessings. 

This  beautiful  utterance  of  a  penitent  seeking  the 
Saviour,  is  answered  by  a  responsive  strain  from  the 
same  pen, — a  grateful  tribute  of  praise  of  the  accepted 
penitent.  Elizabeth  Codner  is  the  author,  whose  "  Mis- 
sionary Ship  "  and  "  Bible  in  the  Kitchen  "  are  deserv- 
edly esteemed  in  England. 

That  expressive  hymn,  the  production  of  AmeHa  M. 
Hull,  of  Marpool  Hall,  Exmouth,  entitled  — 

There  is  life  for  a  look  at  the  Crucified  One ! 

was  written  in  i860.  It  has  been  introduced  into  most 
church  collections.     Miss    Hull   has    published  "  Fruit 


486  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

from  the  Tree  of  Life,"  and  other  volumes  of  reHgious 
poetry. 

Christina  Rossetti,  another  of  England's  Christian 
poets,  and  sister  of  the  well-known  Pre-Raphaelite  artist, 
is  the  author  of  the  following  little  poetic  paraphrase  :  — 

Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field,  whose  bloom  is  brief, — 
We  are  as  they,  —  like  them  we  fade  away,  as  doth  a  leaf ! 
Consider  tlie  sparrows  of  the  air,  of  small  account,  — 
Our  God  doth  view  whether  they  fall  or  mount, 
He  guards  us  too. 

Consider  the  lilies  that  do  neither  spin  nor  toil. 
Yet  are  most  fair :  what  profits  all  this  care  and  all  this  toil? 
Consider  the  birds,  that  have  no  barn,  nor  harvest-weeks, — 
God  gives  them  food  :  much  more  our  Father  seeks 
To  do  us  good  ! 

Another  of  the  tuneful  sisterhood,  Ada  Cambridge,  of 
England,  has  written  some  fine  hymns  and  litanies.  An 
extract  from  one  of  the  latter  is  subjoined  :  — 

Saviour  !  by  Thy  sweet  compassion,  so  unmeasured,  so  divine  ; 
By  that  bitter,  bitter  Passion,  by  that  crimson  Cross  of  Thine; 
By  the  woes  Thy  love  once  tasted  in  this  sin-marred  world  below; 
Succor  those  in  tribulation,  succor  those  in  sorrow  now  ! 
Lord !  Thou  hast  a  holy  purpose  in  each  suffering  we  bear; 
In  each  throe  of  pain  and  terror ;  in  each  secret,  silent  tear  ; 
In  the  weary  days  of  sickness,  famine,  want,  and  loneliness; 
In  our  night-time  of  bereavement,  in  our  soul's  Lent-bitterness. 
All  the  needful  sweet  correction  of  this  gentle  Hand  of  Thine; 
All  Thy  wise  and  careful  nurture,  all  Thy  faultless  discipline; 
All  to  purge  the  precious  metal,  till  it  shall  reflect  Thy  face; 
All  to  shape  and  polish  jewels  Thine  own  diadem  to  grace  ! 
Lord  !  we  know  that  we  must  ever  take  our  cross,  and  follow  Thee 
All  along  the  narrow  pathway,  if  we  would  Thy  glory  see. 
Then,  oh,  help  us  each  to  bear  it,  by  Thine  own  hard  life  of  shame; 
Let  us  suffer  well  and  meekly,  let  us  glorify  Thy  name  ! 

That  beautiful  poem,  which  originally  consisted  of  six 
stanzas,  beginning,  — 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH,  48/ 

While  Thee  I  seek,  protecthig  Power, 

was  written  in  1786,  by  Helen  Maria  Williams,  of  Lon- 
don, who  published  a  "  Collection  of  Poems  "  and  other 
works.  She  visited  France  during  the  terrible  times  of 
Robespierre,  and  was,  indeed,  imprisoned  for  a  brief 
period  in  the  Temple  at  Paris.  The  eminent  French 
preacher  Coquerel,  her  nephew,  is  said  to  have  derived 
from  her  his  early  religious  training. 

The  late  Rev.  J.  D.  Burns,  of  the  Free  Church  of 
Scotland,  and  afterwards  of  the  Presbytery  of  London, 
is  the  author  of  the  following  touching  lines,  so  fraught 
with  the  spirit  of  plaintive  resignation  :  — 

I  know  that  trial  works  for  ends  too  high  for  sense  to  trace  ; 
That  oft  in  dark  attire  He  sends  some  embassy  of  grace  ! 
May  none  depart  till  I  have  gained  the  blessing  which  it  bears  ; 
And  learn,  though  late,  I  entertained  an  angel  unawares ! 
So  shall  I  bless  the  hour  that  sent  the  mercy  of  the  rod  ; 
And  build  an  altar  by  the  tent  where  I  have  met  with  God ! 

Among  the  many  trophies  won  to  the  Truth  by  the 
field  preaching  of  Whitefield,  was  Samuel  Medley,  of 
the  British  navy.  A  convert  to  Christianity,  he  soon 
became  a  minister  of  the  Baptist  denomination,  and 
wrote  some  of  the  songs  of  Zion.  One  familiar  to  us, 
written  by  him,  begins,  — 

Awake,  my  soul,  in  joyful  lays. 

That  sweet  consolatory  hymn,  or  funeral  chant,  com- 
mencing, — 

Asleep  in  Jesus  !     Blessed  sleep  ! 

is  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Mackay,  of  Scotland.  She 
wrote  the  lines  in  memory  of  a  touching  inscription^ 


488       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

"  Sleeping  in  Jesus,"  which  she  saw  in  Pennycross 
Cemetery,  Devonshire. 

Another  cultivated  Christian  gentlewoman,  IMrs.  Mary 
Lundie  Duncan,  in  the  year  1839  wrote  some  simple 
hnes  for  the  use  of  her  own  children,  as  an  evening 
prayer,  without  any  suspicion  that  they  would  become 
known  over  the  civilized  world.     The  lines  begin, — 

Jesus,  tender  Shepherd,  hear  me  ! 

There  is  another  hymn  that,  doubtless,  has  proved 
a  benison  to  many  a  burdened  heart,  and  nerved  it  to 
a  right  resolve:  we  refer  to  the  familiar  hymn  begin- 
ning, — 

Come,  humble  sinner,  in  whose  breast. 

Its  author  was  Edmund  Jones,  a  Welsh  Baptist  preacher, 
who  hved  during  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. 

One  of  the  finest,  perhaps,  of  our  devotional  pieces  is 
that  written  by  the  Rev,  J,  W,  Eastburn,  who  died  in 
New  York  (the  city  of  his  birth),  in  the  year  1829,  at 
the  early  age  of  twenty-two  years.  It  is  entitled  "  Ter 
Sanctus." 

O  holy,  holy,  holy  Lord !     Bright  in  Thy  deeds  and  in  Thy  name  ! 
Forever  be  Thy  name  adored :  Thy  glories  let  the  world  proclaim! 
O  Jesus  !  Lamb  once  crucified,  to  take  our  load  of  sin  away  ! 
Be  Thine  the  hymn  that  rolls  its  tide  along  the  realms  of  upper 

day  ! 
O  Holy  Spirit  from  above,  in  streams  of  light  and  glory  given, — 
Thou  source  of  ecstasy  and  love  !    Thy  praises  ring  through  earth 

and  heaven  ! 
O  God  Triune  !    to  Thee  we  owe  our  every  thought,  our  every 

song; 
And  ever  may  Thy  praises  flow  from  saint  and  seraph's  burning 

tongue  ! 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  489 

There  is  deep  pathos  as  well  as  spiritual  fervor  in 
these  lines  which  follow,  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Constan- 
tine  Pise,  of  the  Romish  Church,  New  York :  — 

Flow  on,  sweet  tears  of  joy  and  peace,  which  none  but  saintly  eyes 

distil: 
Ah,  that  these  tears  might  never  cease,  till  love  and  rapture  have 

their  fill ! 
Ah,  would  this  calm  and  soothing  bliss,  that  tells  my  heart  it  is 

forgiven. 
Might  always  have  a  thrill  like  this,  that  wafts  my  spirit  into  heaven  ! 

Thomas  Kelly,  whose  name  is  familiar  to  us  as  a  hymn- 
writer,  was  an  accomplished  scholar,  the  friend  of  Burke, 
and  an  honored  member  of  the  Irish  Bar.  But  he  soon 
abandoned  the  law  for  the  Gospel,  and  at  the  early  age 
of  twenty-three  years  was  ordained  a  minister  of  the 
Episcopal  Church.  Subsequently  he  espoused  the 
"  Evangelical  party ;  "  and  this  led  to  his  secession  from 
that  ecclesiastical  body,  and  uniting  himself  with  the 
"  Congregationalists."  He  then  became  a  zealous  and 
efficient  co-operator  with  Romaine  and  Rowland  Hill. 
Kelly's  hymns  are  numerous,  and  are  pronounced  as 
eminently  evangelical  in  sentiment,  as  well  as  gracefully 
poetic  and  skilful  in  structure.  The  best  known  of  his 
hymns  are  the  following:  — 

Look,  ye  saints,  the  sight  is  glorious ! 

In  Thy  name,  O  Lord,  assembling. 

We  sing  the  praise  of  Him,  who  died  ! 
The  last-named   hymn  has  elicited  the  high  praise  of 
Sir  Roundell  Palmer,  who  thinks  it  equal,  if  not  superior, 
to  anything  that  has  emanated  from  the  practised  pen 
of  Montgomery. 

The  Rev.  John  Burton,  the  friend  and  ministerial 
associate  of  the  renowned  Robert  Hall,  and  also  a  most 


490       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

pronounced  friend  of  Sunday  schools,  when  its  advocates 

were  far   less   numerous  than   now,  wrote  the   familiar 

lines :  — 

Holy  Bible,  book  Divine  ! 

One  of  the  many  hymnists  who  "  learned  in  suffering 
what  they  taught  in  song "  was  the  rarely-gifted  but 
short-lived  J.  R.  Taylor,  of  Sheffield,  England,  who 
wrote,  among  other  Christian  lyrics,  that  favorite  of  our 
Sabbath  schools,  — 

I  "m  but  a  stranger  here,  heaven  is  my  home  ! 

The  Rev.  Joseph  Grigg,  of  the  Presbyterian  Church, 
Walthamstow,  England,  wrote  several  admirable  hymns, 
among  them  those  beginning,  — 

Behold,  a  stranger  at  the  door  ! 
Jesus  !  and  can  it  ever  be,  a  mortal  man  ashamed  of  thee  ? 

William  Hammond,  friend  and  associate  of  Cennick 
the  hymnist,  and  a  member  of  the  Moravian  faith,  was 
an  accomplished  classical  scholar,  wrote  some  theo- 
logical works,  and  also,  among  others,  the  hymns  com- 
mencing, — 

Awake,  and  sing  the  song  of  Moses  and  the  Lamb, 
and. 

Lord,  vi^e  come  before  Thee  now. 

This  last  hymn  originally  comprised  eight  stanzas  of 
eight  lines  each.  Hammond  had  some  eccentricities, 
like  other  sons  of  genius,  and  amongst  them  was  his 
MSS.  autobiography  in  Greek.  He  lived  at  Chelsea, 
London,  and  died  there  in  1783. 

That  favorite  name,  so  full  of  poetic  and  sacred  asso- 
ciations, and  which  was  borne   by   "  the  most  blessed 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  49I 

among  women,"  has  been  the  theme  of  many  a  lovhig 
tribute  by  the  poets.  The  latest  in  the  order  of  time 
that  we  have  seen  is  the  following,  which  comes  to  us 
direct  from  the  pen  of  the  writer,  VV.  B.  Maclay,  of  New 
York  City :  — 

Embalmed  in  Cowper's  classic  lines, 

In  Arctic  or  in  Tropic  climes, 

How  bright  the  name  of  Mary  shines  ! 

Burns  caught  the  lyre  with  passion  strong, 
"  Mary  in  Heaven  "  inspired  the  song, 
Whose  notes  the  choral  years  prolong. 

By  rippling  lake  and  meadow  green, 
Byron,  thy  Mary's  home  is  seen, 
Though  shadowed  only  in  "  a  dream." 

How  soft  the  airs  of  evening  play 
O'er  storied  arch  and  cloister  gray, 
Kissed  by  the  waves  of  Genoa's  bay. 

When  barks  at  anchor  peaceful  ride. 
And  not  a  sound  is  heard  beside 
"  Ave  Maria"  o'er  the  tide  ! 

Blest  name  !  endeared  as  hers  who  gave 
Her  sorrowing  Son  the  world  to  save 
From  sin  and  sorrow  and  the  grave  ! 

Michael  Bruce,  of  Edinburgh,  who  hved  only  from 
1746  until  1767,  wrote  some  beautiful  poetry,  as  all  who 
have  perused  his  fine  '"  Elegy  on  Spring,"  "  Ode  to  the 
Cuckoo,"  and  his  "  Gospel  Sonnets  "  can  testify.  Like 
Kirke  White,  he  became  an  early  victim  to  consump- 
tion ;  and  like  him,  also,  he  has  left  behind  him  proofs 
of  his  possession  of  rare  poetic  powers.  The  most 
popular  of  his  hymns  is  that  commencing,  — 

Where  high  the  heavenly  tempt  stands. 


492       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Reverting  again  to  the  devotional  lyrics  of  the  present 
day,  those  of  Frances  Ridley  Havergal  take  high  rank, 
alike  for  their  poetic  beauty,  their  freshness  and  religious 
fervor.  Her  productions,  which  have  been  worthily 
collected  into  a  volume,  remind  us  sometimes  of  the 
muse  of  Keble  and  anon  of  Faber  and  of  Adelaide 
Procter.  One  of  her  finest  devotional  poems,  which, 
indeed,  it  may  be  well  said,  is  of  itself  sufficient  to 
achieve  for  its  author  a  reputation,  is  that  founded  upon 
a  motto  placed  under  a  picture  of  Christ,  in  the  study 
of  a  German  divine,  "  TJiis  I  did  for  thee,  what  doest 
thou  for  Me?''  It  is  said  Count  Zinzendorf  was  first 
taught  love  to  the  Saviour  by  reading  this  motto. 
Here  is  the  first  stanza  of  the  hymn :  — 

I  gave  My  life  for  thee,  My  precious  blood  I  shed, 

That  thou  mightst  ransomed  be,  and  quickened  from  the  dead! 

I  gave  My  life  for  thee  ! 

What  hast  thou  given  Me  ? 

We  subjoin  an  extract  from  her  poem  on  "  Faith  and 
Reason :  "  — 

Reason  unstrings  the  harp,  to  see  wherein  the  music  dwells  ; 
Faith  pours  a  hallelujah  song,  and  heavenly  rapture  swells. 
While  Reason  strives  to  count  the  drops  that  lave  our  narrow  strand, 
Faith  launches  o'er  the  mighty  deep  to  seek  a  better  land. 
One  is  the  foot  that  slowly  treads  where  darkling  mists  enshroud; 
The  other  is  the  wing  that  cleaves  each  heaven-obscuring  cloud. 
Reason,  the  eye  which  sees  but  that  on  which  its  glance  is  cast ; 
Faith  is  the  thought  that  blends  in  one  the  Future  and  the  Past ! 
Faith  is  the  bride  that  stands  enrobed  in  pure  and  white  array; 
Reason,  the  handmaid,  who  may  share  the  gladness  of  the  day. 
Faith  leads  the  way,  and  Reason  learns  to  follow  in  her  train  ; 
Till,  step  by  step,  the  goal  is  reached,  and  death  is  glorious  gain  ! 

Many  other  pieces  of  similar  poetic  beauty  give  a 
charm  to  Miss  Havergal's  "  Ministry  of  Song."      Her 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  493 

father  has  already  added  celebrity  to  the  name,  as  his 
'"  Lyra  Sacra "  sufficiently  evinces,  on  both  sides  of 
the  Atlantic ;  and  the  effusions  of  his  gifted  daughter 
will,  doubtless,  add  to  it,  since  they  find  such  general 
acceptation. 

The  hymn  beginning,  — 

Sweet  the  moments,  rich  in  blessing, 

was  not  composed,  as  sometimes  stated,  by  the  Rev.  C. 
Batty,  of  Yorkshire,  but  by  the  Rev.  James  Allen,  one 
of  Lady  Huntingdon's  chaplains.  He  was  an  earnest 
yet  rather  eccentric  itinerant  preacher,  and  on  one  occa- 
sion was  set  upon  by  the  mob.  He  went  to  Scotland, 
and  compiled  a  collection  of  hymns,  including  seventy 
of  his  own.     He  died  in  1804. 

There  is  an  impressive  hymn  that  comes  to  us  from 
the  pen  of  Mrs.  Charles  Akerman,  of  Providence,  R.  L 
It  begins  thus  :  — 

Nothing  but  leaves  !     The  spirit  grieves  over  a  wasted  life  ! 

That  hymn,  found  in  most  of  our  church  books,  com- 
mencing, — 

Hark  !  the  voice  of  love  and  mercy  ! 

was  the  production  of  the  Rev.  J.  Evans,  of  Foleshill, 
England.  He  seems  to  have  been  an  eminent  instance 
of  the  union  of  culture,  benevolence,  and  piety.  He 
wrote  many  other  hymns,  including  that  beginning,  — 

Come,  thou  soul-transforming  Spirit. 

Dr.  S.  Stennet,  who  was  a  Baptist  minister,  of  Exeter, 
England,  discovered  considerable  poetic  genius,  as  his 
hymns  prove ;  for  instance,  that  one  commencing,  — 


494  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

On  Jordan's  stormy  banks  I  stand. 

Stennet  was  a  contemporary  with  Watts,  and  John 
Howard  the  philanthropist,  who  was  a  frequent  and  an 
appreciative  attendant  upon  his  ministry.  He  was  also 
honored  with  the  personal  friendship  of  his  sovereign, 
George  HI. 

Dr.  Joseph  Stennet,  the  father  of  the  above,  was  a 
Baptist  minister  in  London;  and,  it  might  be  added, 
rather  a  belligerent  Baptist,  for  he  wrote  some  contro- 
versial prose  in  defence  of  his  creed,  and  also  a  dozen 
hymns  on  "  Believers'  Baptism."  He  was  yet  a  noble, 
self-denying  defender  of  the  faith  ;  for  he  declined  prefer- 
ment on  one  occasion,  although  "  his  family  was  large 
and  his  salary  small."     He  wrote  the  hymns,  — 

Another  six  days'  work  is  done, 

and, 

Come,  bless  the  Lord,  whose  love  assigns. 

We  now  introduce  a  Scottish  lady  of  Christian  culture, 
who  has,  under  the  signature  "  H.  L.  L.,"  published 
several  translations  from  the  German,  and  a  volume  of 
original  verses,  entitled  "  Thoughts  for  the  Thoughtful." 
Her  name  is  Jane  Borthwick :  one  of  her  more  recent  con- 
tributions to  our  sacred  anthology  is  the  following :  — 

Times  are  changing,  days  are  flying,  —  years  are  quickly  past  and 
gone,  — 

While  the  wildly-mingled  murmur  of  life's  busy  hum  goes  on. 

Sounds  of  tumult,  sounds  of  triumph,  marriage  chimes,  and  passing- 
bell,— 

Yet  through  all  one  key-note  sounding,  —  angels'  watchword,  — "  It 
is  well !  " 

We  may  hear  it  through  the  rushing  of  the  midnight  tempest's  wave ; 

We  may  hear  it  through  the  weeping  round  the  newly-covered 
grave. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  495 

In  the  dreary  house  of  mourning,  in  the  darkened  room  of  pain, 
If  we  hsten  meekly,  rightly,  we  may  catch  that  soothing  strain  ! 

Another  of  the  worthy  contributors  to  our  modern 
hymnology  was  James  Edmeston,  an  architect  of  the 
British  metropoHs,  who  died  in  1867.  One  of  his  most 
popular  hymns  is  that  commencing,  — 

Saviour  !  breathe  an  evening  blessing, 

which  was  suggested  (as  we  gather  from  Mr.  Miller)  by 
the  reading,  in  Salte's  "  Travels  in  Abyssinia,"  the  fol- 
lowing words :  "  At  night,  their  short  evening  hymn, 
'Jesus,  forgive  us ! '  stole  through  the  camp."  Mr.  Ed- 
meston published  in  1822  about  fifty  hymns,  and  subse- 
quently as  many  more,  besides  several  other  volumes 
for  the  London  Religious  Tract  Society.  His  glowing 
style  may  be  seen  in  the  following  extract  from  one  of 
his  later  pieces  :  — 

Why  should  I,  in  vain  repining,  mourn  the  clouds  that  cross  my 

way, 
Since  my  Saviour's  presence  shining  turns  the  darkness  into  day! 
Earthly  honor,  earthly  treasure,  all  the  warmest  passions  win, 
And  the  silken  wings  of  pleasure  only  waft  us  on  to  sin  : 
But  within  the  vale  of  sorrow,  all  with  tempests  overblown. 
Purest  light  and  joy  we  borrow  from  the  face  of  God  alone  ! 
Welcome,  then,  each  darker  token  ;  Mercy  sent  it  from  above  ! 
So  the  heart,  subdued,  not  broken,  bends  in  fear,  and  melts  in  love  ! 

There  is  an  interesting  history  connected  with  a  hymn 
often  used  in  our  Christian  worship :  it  is,  indeed,  a 
translation  made  by  Joshua  Marshman,  in  1801,  from 
the  original  Hindoo,  "by  the  first  Christian  convert" 
at  Serampore,  India,  named  Krishna  Pal.  This  first 
trophy  of  the  Truth  in  far  India  was  baptized  in  the 
river  Ganges ;  and  thus,  heroically  breaking  through  the 


49^  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

inexorable  law  of  caste,  he  became  himself  a  devoted 
native  missionary  of  the  Cross.  The  hymn  will  hereafter 
possess  a  deeper  interest  for  us  from  a  knowledge  of 
this  fact:  do  you  know  what  hymn  it  is? 

O  thou,  my  soul,  forget  no  more,  &c. 

Another  familiar  hymn,  commencing,  — 

If  human  kindness  meets  return, 

was  the  production  of  the  Rev.  G.  T.  Noel,  elder  brother 
of  the  Rev.  Baptist  W.  Noel,  formerly  of  the  Episcopal 
Church,  and  afterwards  minister  of  the  Baptist  denomi- 
nation in  England. 

There  is  in  some  of  our  Sunday-school  hymn  books, 
although  not  suited  for  the  use  of  children,  a  hymn 
beginning,  — 

Here  we  suffer  grief  and  pain,  &c. 

The  author,  Thomas  Bilby,  was  principal  of  the  training- 
school  at  Chelsea,  London.  He  wrote  the  hymn  in 
1832. 

The  annexed  little  poem  is  from  the  facile  and  grace- 
ful pen  of  Miss  Lillie  E.  Barr,  of  New  York,  whose 
various  poetic  contributions  to  the  religious  press  have 
won  such  deservedly  high  commendation:  — 

Eyes  that  have  wept  and  watched  for  years, 
No  more  shall  ye  be  dimmed  by  tears ; 
Your  vigil  now  shall  others  keep, — 
'T  is  only  open  eyes  that  weep  ! 

Oh,  heart !  so  good,  so  true,  so  brave  ! 
There  is  no  trouble  in  the  grave  ; 
No  care,  that  dreamless  sleep  to  wake  ; 
'T  is  only  beathtg  hearts  that  break  ! 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  49/ 

Hands  crossed  so  humbly  on  the  breast,  — 
Poor  weary  hands  !  ye  now  have  rest, 
While  Death  hath  purified  your  soil ; 
'T  is  only  living  hands  that  toil. 

Then  turned  I  to  the  weeping  wife,  — 
"Dear  Heart !  "  said  I,  "  this  sleep  is  life  ; 
And  its  awakening  shall  be  — 
The  birth  of  Immortality  !  " 

There  is  a  very  remarkable  hymn, — especially  remark- 
able for  its  grand  chorus,  —  written  by  Edward  Mote,  a 
Baptist  minister,  at  Horsham,  Sussex.  The  hymn  which 
begins,  — 

My  hope  is  built  on  nothing  less, 

with  the  fine  chorus,  — 

On  Christ,  the  solid  rock,  I  stand  ! 
All  other  ground  is  sinking  sand  ! 

the  author  states,  "  flowed  into  his  mind  one  morning, 
as  he  was  walking  up  Holborn  Hill,  London,  on  his  way 
to  business,  about  fifty  years  ago.  Four  verses  of  the 
hymn  were  soon  written,  and  two  more  on  the  following 
Sunday.  They  were  of  immediate  use  in  affording 
comfort  to  a  dying  friend."  *  That  fine  hymn  begin- 
ning,— 

Come,  O  my  soul,  in  sacred  lays, 

was  written  by  Dr.  Blacklock,  of  Edinburgh,  who,  al- 
though deprived  of  sight,  devoted  a  protracted  life  to 
sacred  learning  and  the  Christian  ministry.  It  was  of 
him  that  Burke,  in  his  "'  Essay  on  the  Sublime,"  said, 
"'  Few  men  blest  with  the  most  perfect  sight  can  describe 
visual  objects  with  more  spirit  and  justness  than  this 

*  Miller. 
32 


498       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

blind  man."      It  is  remarkable  that   he  wrote  an  able 
article  on  blindness  for  the  "  Encyclopaedia  Britannica." 
He  died  in    1791,  and   left  a  luminous   name,   though 
denied  the  blessing  of  light  himself. 
The  well-known  parting-hymn,  — 

Lord,  dismiss  us  with  Thy  blessing, 

was  written  by  the  Rev.  George  Border,  a  Congrega- 
tional minister  of  London,  where  he  lived  from  1752  until 
1832.     He  was   one  of  the   founders  of  the  Religious 
Tract  Society  of  London, 
The  hymn  commencing,  — 

O  God  of  Bethel,  by  whose  hand, 

although  in  some  collections  attributed  to  Logan,  has 
been  found  to  have  been  written  by  Philip  Doddridge, 
whose  numerous  beautiful  effusions  need  hardly  be  indi- 
cated, as  they  are  so  familiar  to  us,  such  as :  — 

Jesus  !  I  love  Thy  charming  name ! 
O  happy  day  that  fixed  my  choice, 
Let  Zion's  watchmen  all  awake, 
and. 

While  on  the  verge  of  life  I  stand, 

which  last  was  composed  immediately  after  awaking  from 
his  remarkable  dream  of  being  in  a  disembodied  state 
and  taken  up  into  heaven. 

There  is  yet  another  beautiful  Christian  lyric,  begin- 
ning,— 

We  speak  of  tlie  realms  of  the  blest, 

which  is  the  production  of  Elizabeth  Mills,  of  England, 
and  was  composed   after  reading  "'  Brydges's  work  on 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  499 

the   119th  Psalm."      The  author  who  descanted  so  in- 
spiringly  upon   "the   realms   of  the    blest"   soon  after 
left  earthly  scenes,  and  has,  doubtless,  attained  to  the 
coveted  knowledge  of  "  what  it  must  be  to  be  there  !  " 
That  little  Sunday-school  lyric,  — 

To-day  the  Saviour  calls, 

was  written  by  Thomas  Hastings,  of  New  York,  who 
was  as  much  of  a  musician  as  a  poet,  as  his  beautiful 
tunes  and  choral  melodies  sufficiently  attest.  That  fine 
Resurrection-hymn,  beginning,  — 

How  calm  and  beautiful  the  morn  that  gilds  the  sacred  tomb! 

is  from  his  pen,  and  he  has  enriched  our  collections  with 
other  spiritual  songs  and  hymns  of  similar  beauty. 

There  has  been  some  discussion  as  to  the  authorship 
of  those  fine  stanzas  commencing, — 

How  firm  a  foundation,  ye  saints  of  the  Lord, — 

some  with  doubtful  claim  ascribing  them  to  Kirkham, 
an  associate  minister  with  the  Wesleys ;  while  others, 
with  more  direct  authority,  trace  them  to  the  pen  of 
George  Keith,  of  Gracechurch  Street,  London,  and  a 
son-in-law  of  Dr.  Gill.     It  was  first  printed  in   1787. 

There  is  another  cherished  name  among  the  priest- 
hood of  song,  whose  tuneful  harp  is  now,  alas !  all  un- 
strung: we  refer  to  the  late  Dr.  Bonar,  some  of  whose 
numerous  heart-songs  and  refrains  will  live  with  the 
Christian  faith  that  inspired  them.  We  present  his  part- 
ing tribute,  —  his  last  swan-like  song:  — 

Still  one  in  life  and  one  in  death,  one  in  our  hope  of  rest  above  ; 
One  in  our  joy,  our  trust,  our  faith,  one  in  each  other's  faithful 
love. 


500       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Yet  must  we  part,  and  parting  weep ;  what  else  has  earth  for  us  in 

store  ? 
Our  farewell  pangs,  how  sharp  and  deep  !  Our  farewell  words,  how 

sad  and  sore  ! 
Yet  shall  we  meet  again  in  peace,  to  sing  the  song  of  festal  joy; 
Where  none  shall  bid  our  gladness  cease,  and  none  our  fellowship 

destroy ; 
Where  none  shall  beckon  us  away,  nor  bid  our  festival  be  done : 
Our  meeting-time,  the  eternal  day  !  our  meeting-place,  the  eternal 

throne  ! 
There,  hand-in-hand,  firm-linked  at  last,  and  heart  to  heart  enfolded 

all, 
We'll  smile  upon  the  troubled  past,  and  wonder  why  we  wept  at  all. 

The  Christian  pubhc  is  under  obligations  to  Mrs.  Eliz- 
abeth Payson  Prentiss  for  many  beautiful  and  touching 
poems  and  hymns ;  among  them,  not  the  least  popular 
is  that  commencing,  — 

More  love  to  Thee,  O  Christ !  more  love  to  Thee  ! 
Hear  Thou  the  prayer  I  make  on  bended  knee. 
This  is  my  earnest  plea,  —  more  love,  O  Christ,  to  Thee, 
More  love  to  Thee  ! 

This  hymn  has  been  incorporated  into  many  church 
hymnals.  It  has  also  been  translated  into  Arabic,  like 
Ray  Palmer's  fine  hymn,  "  My  Faith  looks  up  to  Thee  ;" 
so  that  two  sacred  songs  of  the  West  are  sung  in  the  far 
East,  the  very  birthplace  of  Christianity. 
The  following  is  another  of  her  poems :  — 

Complete  in  Him  !  O  Lord,  I  flee  laden  with  this  great  thought  to 

Thee  ; 
With  tears  and  smiles  contending,  cry,  Are  words  like  these  for 

such  as  I  ? 
Complete  in  Him  !  no  word  of  mine  is  needed.  Lord,  to  perfect 

Thine  : 
Wise  Master-builder,  let  Thy  hand  fashion  the  fabric  Thou  hast 

planned. 


RECENT  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH.        50I 

Complete  in  Him !  I  nothing  bring,  —  am  an  imperfect,  useless 
thing  ; 

But  human  eyes  shall  joy  to  see  what  God's  dear  hand  shall  add  to 
me. 

Complete  in  Him  !  Oh,  longed-for  day,  when  my  poor,  sinful  heart 
can  say,  — 

Naught  in  myself,  for  ruin  meet,  in  Jesus  Christ  I  stand  com- 
plete! 

The  author  of  the  following  poem  is  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Whitehead,  of  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge.  Some  of 
the  stanzas  are  omitted  here. 

I  gaze  aloof, 

On  the  tissued  roof. 
Where  time  and  space  are  the  warp  and  woof 

Which  the  King  of  kings 

As  a  curtain  flings 
O'er  the  dreadfulness  of  eternal  things. 

But  could  I  see. 

As  in  truth  they  be, 
The  glories  of  heaven  that  encompass  me, 

I  should  hghtly  hold 

The  tissued  fold 
Of  that  marvellous  curtain  of  blue  and  gold. 

Soon  the  whole, 

Like  a  parched  scroll, 
Shall  before  my  amazed  sight  uproU  ; 

And  without  a  screen, 

At  one  burst  be  seen 
The  Presence  wherein  I  have  ever  been. 

Oh,  who  shall  bear 

The  blinding  glare 
Of  the  majesty  that  shall  meet  us  there  ? 

What  eye  may  gaze 

On  the  unveiled  blaze 
Of  the  light-girdled  throne  of  the  Ancient  of  Days  ? 


502       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Dr.  Norman  McLeod,  the  famous  Scotch  preacher, 
wrote  a  Httle  poem  which  has  been  a  note  of  encour- 
agement to  many  a  troubled  soul.  Wc  quote  a  portion 
of  it. 

Courage,  brother,  do  not  stumble, 

Though  thy  path  be  dark  as  night ; 

There  's  a  star  to  guide  the  humble,  — 

"  Trust  in  God  and  do  the  right." 

Let  the  road  be  rough  and  dreary, 

And  its  end  far  out  of  sight, 
Foot  it  bravely  !  strong  or  weary, 

"  Trust  in  God  and  do  the  right." 

Trust  no  party,  sect,  or  faction; 

Trust  no  leaders  in  the  fight : 
But  in  every  word  and  action, 

"  Trust  in  God  and  do  the  right." 

Simple  rule,  and  safest  guiding, 

Inward  peace  and  inward  might,  t 

Star  upon  our  path  abiding, 

"Trust  in  God  and  do  the  right." 

Some  will  hate  thee,  some  will  love  thee ; 

Some  will  flatter,  some  will  slight : 
Cease  from  man,  and  look  above  thee ; 

"  Trust  in  God  and  do  the  right." 

The  two  following  poetic  waifs  are  worthy  a  niche  in 
our  gallery  of  gems. 

Oh,  if  there  be  an  hour  that  brings 
The  breath  of  heaven  upon  its  wings, 
To  light  the  heart,  to  glad  the  eye 
With  glimpses  of  eternity. 
It  is  the  hour  of  mild  decay. 
The  sunset  of  the  Holy  day  ! 
For  then  to  earth  a  light  is  given 
Fresh  flowing  from  the  gates  of  heaven  ; 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  503 

And  then,  on  every  breeze  we  hear 
AngeHc  voices  whispering  near,  — 
Through  veihng  shades  glance  seraph  eyes  — 
One  step  —  and  all  were  Paradise  ! 


I  wonder  if  ever  a  song  was  sung 

But  the  singer's  heart  was  sweeter  ! 
I  wonder  if  ever  a  rhyme  was  rung 

But  the  thought  surpassed  the  metre  !. 
I  wonder  if  ever  a  sculptor  wrought 
Till  the  cold  stone  echoed  his  ardent  thought  ! 
Or  if  ever  a  painter,  with  light  and  shade, 
The  dream  of  his  inmost  heart  portrayed  ! 

I  wonder  if  ever  a  rose  was  found 

And  there  might  not  be  a  fairer  ! 
Or  if  ever  a  glittering  gem  was  ground 

And  we  dreamed  not  of  a  rarer  ! 
Ah  !  never  on  earth  shall  we  find  tlie  best ! 
But  it  waits  for  us  in  the  land  of  rest ; 
And  a  perfect  thing  we  shall  never  behold 
Till  we  pass  the  portal  of  shining  gold. 

From  a  delightful  volume  of  poems,  lyric  and  devo- 
tional, published  to  London  recently,  entitled  "  Minor 
Chords,"  by  Sophia  May  Eckley,  we  select  the  following- 
graceful  stanzas :  — 

O  early  dreams  !  sweet  springtide  dreams 

Of  childhood's  fleeting  hours, 
When  through  youth's  wizard  glass  we  gazed, 

And  trod  her  myrtle  bowers. 

O  summer  dreams  !  sweet  summer  dreams  ! 

O  hope  !  O  trust !  O  joy  ! 
The  faded  gleams,  the  broken  links, 

Leave  gold  —  but  with  alloy- 

O  later  days  I  gray  autumn  days  ! 

Bring  riper  fruits  for  wine  ; 
And  as  earth's  dreams  prove  only  dreams, 

Clear  Faith  begins  to  shine. 


504  EVENINGS    WITH   THE    SACRED    POETS. 

O  golden  days  !  eternal  days  ! 

The  days  that  are  to  come, 
When  glorified  we  see  His  face, 

And  call  His  presence,  Home ! 

Here  follows  another  poem  from  the  same  source  :  — 

Not  day  nor  night,  "  not  clear  nor  dark,"  — 
Thus  sang  the  Prophet  in  foreshadowed  night, 
Sang  of  the  Light  to  fall  on  Judah's  hills, 
"At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light!  " 

Thus  evening  falls  when  death  draws  near; 
When  life  is  ebbing,  softly  folds  the  night  : 
The  dying  hear,  when  all  to  us  is  dark, 
"  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light !  " 

Love  then  must  fold  her  drooping  wings. 
And  veil  her  face  ;  for  mark  how  wondrous  bright, 
How  passing  radiant,  is  that  room  of  death 
Which  brings  the  dying  Christian  light ! 

Dim  shadows  of  the  Great  Beyond 
Shroud  us,  —  for  him  no  more  the  feud,  the  fight ; 
Christ's  warrior  sleeps,  while  angels  round  him  sing, 
"  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light !  " 

Oh,  glorious  prospect,  thus  to  wait. 
As  glooms  earth's  waning  shadows  on  the  sight. 
Faith's  taper  light !     Oh,  live,  the  promise  wait,  — 
"  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light !  " 

We  are  permitted  to  cull  the  followin,^  choice  lines 
from  the  volume  of  poems  recently  published  by  Dr.  H. 
N.  Pierce,  Bishop  of  Arkansas  :  — 

•  The  heart  that  suffers,  most  may  sing, 
All  beauty  seems  of  sorrow  born  : 
This  truth,  half  seen  in  life's  young  morn. 

Stands  full  and  clear  at  evening. 
The  gems  of  thought  most  highly  prized 
Are  tears  of  sorrow  crystallized. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  505 

And  thus  the  struggling  grief  gives  birth 
To  forms  of  beauty  all  its  own,  — 
In  tones,  in  words,  in  tints,  in  stone, 

Are  its  deep  yearnings  bodied  forth, 
As  painting,  sculpture,  poesy. 
Or  music  sets  the  pent  grief  free. 

And  if  thy  spirit,  loving,  kind, 
Hears  aught  of  music  in  the  chime 
Of  what  may  seem  an  idle  rhyme ; 

Canst  thou  here  aught  of  beauty  find,  — 
If  here  gleams  out  one  gemlike  thought, 
Know  that  it,  too,  is  sorrow-wrought. 

All  beauty  has  in  sorrow  birth  ; 
Heart-aches  inspire  the  poet's  themes, 
And  shape  the  painter's,  sculptor's,  dreams: 

Such  is  the  destiny  of  earth. 
His  beams  the  heaven-taught  genius  throws 
O'er  all,  and  all  with  radiance  glows  ! 

The  authorship  of  these  fine  Hnes  is,  we  regret  to  say, 
unknown  to  us. 

THE    UPLANDS    OF    GOD. 
"  Come  ye  yourselves  apart  unto  a  desert  place  and  rest  awhile." 

God  hath  His  uplands  bleak  and  bare, 

Where  He  doth  bid  us  rest  awhile, — 
Crags  where  we  breathe  a  purer  air, 

Lone  peaks  that  catch  the  day's  first  smile; 
Earth's  hurrying  feet  are  far  away: 
Awe-struck,  we  wait  what  God  may  say. 
God  hath  His  desert  broad  and  brown, 

A  solitude,  —  a  sea  of  sand. 
On  which  He  lets  Heaven's  curtains  down, 
Unknit  by  His  almighty  hand. 
By  day  a  sapphire  tent  unfolds, — 
By  night,  an  arc  of  burning  worlds. 
Here  doth  He  bid  us  muse  and  pray 
Half-uttered,  half-forgotten  prayers  ; 


506       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Let  thoughts  expand,  which  yesterday 
Were  stifled  by  the  world's  rank  cares  : 
Behind  Creation's  throbbing  screen 
Catch  movements  of  the  great  Unseen. 


The  Sabbath  sunshine  blessed  the  earth  to-day 
With  large,  still  utterance  of  a  thought  divine  ; 

For  ever  freely  thus  —  it  seemed  to  say  — 

Doth  heavenly  love  on  human  darkness  shine  : 

Oh,  bright  beyond  all  suns  that  wondrous  light  of  Thine  ! 

To-night,  the  Sabbath  moonlight  with  white  wings, 

Dove-like,  doth  brood  o'er  Earth's  dark,  fevered  breast; 

So  God's  great  calm  its  gift  of  healing  brings 
To  souls  long  tossed  in  sorrowful  unrest. 
And  leaves  therein  the  peace  that  cannot  be  expressed.* 

A  pleasant  incident  is  related  of  the  following  hymn, 
by  Dr.  Putnam,  in  the  "  Singers  and  Songs  of  the  Liberal 
Faith."  A  company  of  Bostonians,  among  whom  was 
Mrs.  Hill,  a  daughter  of  Dr.  C.  Robbins,  were  returning 
from  England  in  a  Cunard  steamer.  An  aged  Scotch 
Presbyterian  minister  was  among  the  passengers,  who 
were  singing  hymns  on  deck  on  a  Sabbath  evening, 
when  the  clergyman  said  he  would  show  them  what  he 
considered  the  sweetest  of  hymns.  To  the  glad  surprise 
of  the  lady  referred  to,  he  recited  her  father's  own  hymn. 
It  was  this  :  — 

Lo  !  the  day  of  rest  declineth, 

Gather  fast  the  shades  of  night ; 
May  the  Sun  that  ever  shineth 

Fill  our  souls  with  heavenly  light. 
Softly  now  the  dew  is  falling  ; 

Peace  o'er  all  the  scene  is  spread  ; 
On  His  cliildren,  meekly  calling. 

Purer  influence  God  will  shed. 

•  N.  Y.  Independent. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  $0/ 

While  Thine  ear  of  love  addressing, 
Thus  our  parting  hymn  we  sing,  — 

Father,  give  Thine  evening  blessing  ; 
Fold  us  safe  beneath  Thy  wing.* 

We  cite  the  following  beautiful  lines  from  a  poem 
by  Harriet  McEwen  Kimball,  entitled  "  The  Morning 
Chamber." 

Fair  as  the  peace  that  like  a  river  flows, 

Across  the  room  the  cloudless  moonlight  streams  : 

Recess  and  corner  dusk,  its  hallowing  beams 

Suffuse  with  mist-like  glimmer  of  repose. 

So  hushed  this  chamber,  and  so  rapt  this  tide 

Of  visible  calm,  that  blessed  visions  rise 

Of  the  great  city  of  peace  beyond  the  skies, — 

Of  crystal  waters  that  perpetual  glide 

From  out  the  Throne,  swift  light,  descending  light, 

Forever  and  forever,  with  a  sound 

Of  inconceivable  music,  music  drowned 

In  rain  of  benediction  from  the  might 

And  majesty  of  One  enthroned  above,  — 

The  Light  of  light,  whose  name  of  names  is  Love  ! 

To  Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney  we  are  indebted  for  the 
following  thoughtful  and  impressive  lines,  entitled  "  Sun- 
light and  Starlight." 

God  sets  some  souls  in  shade,  alone  ; 
They  have  no  daylight  of  their  own  ; 
Only  in  lives  of  happier  ones 
They  see  the  shine  of  distant  suns. 
God  knows.     Content  thee  with  thy  night; 
Thy  greater  heaven  hath  grander  light. 
To-day  is  close  ;  the  hours  are  small ; 
Thou  sitt'st  afar,  and  hast  them  all. 
Lose  the  less  joy,  that  doth  but  blind; 
Reach  forth  a  larger  bliss  to  find. 
To-day  is  brief;  the  inclusive  spheres 
Rain  raptures  of  a  thousand  years  ! 

*  Dr.  P.  Schaffs  Library  of  Poetry. 


508       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

The  following  graceful  lines  are  part  of  a  lyric  enti- 
tled "  October  Reveries,"  by  Miss  Mary  K.  A.  Stone,  of 
Cambridge,  Mass. 

Once  more  the  year  puts  on  her  robes  of  praise, 
And  chants  her  fullest  Benedicite, 
Laying  her  offering  at  His  throne,  whose  feet 
Once  made  the  whole  wide  earth  His  holy  ground. 
Upon  her  brow  she  wears  the  seal  of  peace, 
Lil<e  some  saint-life  awaiting  its  translation  ; 
While  strange  revealings  from  the  bright  beyond 
Shine  out  upon  her  calm,  still  countenance  ! 
When  the  near  autumn  of  my  days  shall  come, 
Bringing  my  soul  her  latest  "  harvest-home," 
O  Lord !  be  Thou  Thyself  my  rest  and  crown  ! 

The  following  Thanksgiving  lyric  is  by  W.  D.  Howells. 

Lord,  for  the  erring  thought 
Not  into  evil  wrought ; 
Lord,  for  the  wicked  will 
Betrayed  and  baffled  still  ; 
For  the  heart  from  itself  kept. 
Our  thanksgiving  accept. 
For  ignorant  hopes  that  were 
Broken  to  our  blind  prayer  ; 
For  pain,  death,  sorrow  sent 
Unto  our  chastisement ; 
For  all  loss  of  seeming  good, 
Quicken  our  gratitude. 

Willis  Gaylord  Clarke,  the  author  of  the  beautiful 
lines  entitled  "  Euthanasia,"  which  follow,  was  long  the 
editor  of  the  "Knickerbocker  Magazine,"  of  New  York. 

Methinks  when  on  the  languid  eye 

Life's  autumn  scenes  grow  dim  ; 
When  evening's  shadows  veil  the  sky, 

And  pleasure's  siren  hymn 
Grows  fainter  on  the  tuneless  ear, 


RECENT  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH.         509 

Like  echoes  from  another  sphere, 

Or  dreams  of  seraphim, — 
It  were  not  sad  to  cast  away 
This  dull  and  cumbrous  load  of  clay. 
It  were  not  sad  to  feel  the  heart 

Grow  passionless  and  cold  ; 
To  feel  those  longings  to  depart   . 

That  cheered  the  good  of  old  ; 
To  clasp  the  faith  which  looks  on  high, 
Which  fires  the  Christian's  dying  eye, 

And  makes  the  curtain-fold 
That  falls  upon  his  wasting  breast, 
The  door  that  leads  to  endless  rest. 
It  seems  not  lonely  thus  to  lie 

On  that  triumphant  bed, 
Till  the  rapt  spirit  mounts  on  high, 

By  white-winged  seraphs  led,  — 
Where  glories  earth  may  never  know 
O'er  "  many  mansions  "  lingering  glow, 

In  peerless  lustre  shed. 
It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  soar 
Where  sin  and  sorrow  sting  no  more. 

We  give  below  the  graceful  lines  of  Mrs.  Margaret  E. 
Sangster's  "Vesper  Song."  The  reader  is  doubtless 
familiar  with  her  beautiful  religious  lyrics. 

The  clouds  of  sunset,  fold  on  fold, 

Are  purple  and  tawny,  and  edged  with  gold. 

Soft  as  the  silence  after  a  hymn. 

Is  the  hush  that  falls  as  the  light  grows  dim. 

And  the  phantom  feet  of  the  shadows  glide 

To  the  maple  tops  and  the  river's  tide. 

Not  even  the  thought  of  a  sound  is  heard, 

Till  the  dusk  is  thrilled  by  a  hidden  bird 

That  suddenly  sings,  as  the  light  grows  dim, 

Its  wonderful  passionate  vesper  hymn. 

Sweet  as  the  voice  of  an  angel's  call, 

Sent  to  me  from  the  jasper  wall, 

Is  the  music  poured  from  that  tiny  throat, 

A  message  of  comfort  in  every  note. 


510       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

I  know  not  wliere  in  the  leafy  tree 
The  dear  httle  warbler's  home  may  be. 
There  are  in  this  world,  where  God  is  King, 
Some  that  have  nothing  to  do  but  sing ; 
And  we  who  listen  have  nought  to  say 
Concerning  their  Masters  rule  and  sway, — 
Only  this  :   it  was  surely  best. 
Since  it  taught  them  strains  so  full  of  rest; 
And  showed  the  path  to  a  lighted  ark, 
Perhaps,  to  some  one  lost  in  the  dark. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  B.  F.  De  Costa,  of  New  York,  is  the 
author  of  these  stirring  and  inspiring  Hnes :  — 

Kingdom  of  God  !  who  would  not  be 
In  that  grand  principality 
A  subject,  whose  far-shining  days, 
Exhaustless,  lapse  in  songs  of  praise  ? 
There  Love  is  law,  and  rules  alone 
Eternal,  as  the  crystal  throne 
Whose  beams  of  clear  supernal  light 
With  endless  day  shut  out  the  night ; 
While  joy  pervades  each  tranquil  breast, 
Brief  toil  exchanged  for  endless  rest; 
Where  peaceful  banners  float  unfurled 
In  memory  of  a  conquered  world  ! 
Kingdom  of  God  !  who  would  not  be 
Crowned  in  that  principality  ? 

The  following  poetic  "  Creed  "  is  by  Louise  B.  Spaul- 
ding:  — 

I  hold  that  He  who  marks  the  sparrow's  fall 
Has  heed  of  me,  and  all  that  does  betide  ; 

And  that  my  prayers,  if  wise,  are  answered  all, 
If  wayward,  then,  if  need  be,  so  denied. 

I  hold  He  measures  out  my  spirit's  food. 
Daily  my  cup  is  filled  for  me  to  drain  ; 

I  drink,  though  bitter,  knowing  it  is  good, 
And  thus  I  thank  Him  for  the  cup  of  pain. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  5II 

I  do  believe  that  every  tear  that  flows  — 
Aye,  every  heart-wound  gotten  in  the  strife  — 

Has  blessM  part  in  all  the  spirit  grows 
Of  good,  to  fit  it  for  the  higher  life. 

And  I  believe  that  pain  and  grief's  fierce  smart 
Are  angels  ministering  in  strange  disguise,  — 

Are  angels  tending  the  sick,  feverish  heart, 
To  better  fit  it  for  the  holy  skies. 

And  so  I  come  to  kneel  and  kiss  the  rod, 

Knowing  the  Father's  hand  inflicts  the  pain  ; 

He  will  not  punish  longer  than  is  good. 
Nor  will  inflict  a  single  pang  in  vain. 

Oh,  you  who  sit  with  tear-blind,  doubting  eyes, 
Have  faith  a  little  time,  believe  and  wait. 

For  on  your  sorrows  you  shall  mount  and  rise, 

And  so,  through  them,  achieve  the  Heavenly  Gate. 

The  annexed  poem  has  such  fine,  vigorous  hnes  that 
we  cannot,  without  injury  to  the  production,  omit  any. 
The  author  was  Frederick  West,  who  Hved  in  New  York 
some  score  of  years  since :  — 

Where  are  the  mighty  ones  of  ages  past, 
Who  o'er  the  world  their  inspiration  cast, 
Whose  memories  stir  our  spirits  like  a  blast  ?  — 
Where  are  the  dead  ? 

Where  are  old  empires-  sinews,  snapped  and  gone  ? 
Where  is  the  Persian,  Mede,  Assyrian  ? 
Where  are  the  kinijs  of  Egypt,  Babylon  ?  — 
Where  are  the  dead? 

Where  are  the  mighty  ones  of  Greece  ?  where  be 
The  men  of  Sparta  and  Thermopylae  ? 
The  conquering  Macedonian,  where  is  he  ?  — 
Where  are  the  dead.? 

Where  are  Rome's  founders  ?  where  her  chiefest  son. 
Before  whose  name  the  wliole  known  world  bowed  down, 
Whose  conquering  arm  chased  the  retreating  sun  ?  — 
Where  are  the  dead  ? 


512       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Where  's  the  bard-warrior-king  of  Albion's  state,  — 
A  pattern  for  earth's  sons  to  emulate, — 
The  truly,  nobly,  wisely,  goodly  great  ?  — 
Where  are  the  dead  ? 

Where  is  Gaul's  hero,  who  aspired  to  be 
A  second  Caesar  in  his  mastery  ; 

To  whom  earth's  crowned  ones  trembling  bent  the  knee?- 
Where  are  the  dead  ? 

Where  is  Columbia's  son,  her  darling  child, 
Upon  whose  birth  Virtue  and  Freedom  smiled, — 
The  western  star,  bright,  pure,  and  undefiled  ?  — 
Where  are  the  dead  ? 

Where  are  the  sons  of  song,  the  soul-inspired. 
The  bard  of  Greece  whose  muse  (of  heaven  acquired) 
With  admiration  ages  past  has  fired,  — 
The  classic  dead  ? 

Where  is  the  fairie  minstrel  ?  and,  oh  !  where 
Is  that  lone  bard  who  dungeon  gyves  did  bear, 
For  his  love-song  breathed  in  a  princess'  ear,  — 
The  gentle  dead  ? 

Where  is  the  poet  who  in  death  was  crowned, 

Whose  clay-cold  temples  laurel-chaplets  bound. 

Mocking  the  dust,  —  in  life  no  honor  found,  — 

The  insulted  dead  ? 

Greater  than  all,  —  an  earthly  sun  enshrined, — 
Where  is  the  king  of  bards  ?  where  shall  we  find 
The  Swan  of  Avon,  monarch  of  the  mind, — 
The  mighty  dead  ? 

Did  they  all  die  when  did  their  bodies  die. 
Like  the  brute  dead  passing  forever  by  ? 
Then  wherefore  was  their  intellect  so  high, — 
The  mighty  dead  ? 

Why  was  it  not  confined  to  earthly  sphere. 
To  earthly  wants  ?     If  it  must  perish  here. 
Why  did  they  languish  for  a  bliss  more  dear,  — 
The  blessM  dead  ? 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  513 

All  things  in  nature  are  proportionate  ; 
Is  man  alone  in  an  imperfect  state,  — 
He  who  doth  all  things  rule  and  regulate  ?  — 
Then  where  the  dead  ? 

If  here  they  perished,  where  their  being's  germ, — 
Here  were  their  thoughts',  their  hopes',  their  wishes'  term,— 
Why  should  a  giant's  strength  propel  a  worm  ?  — 
The  dead  !  the  dead  ! 

There  are  no  dead !     The  forms,  indeed,  did  die, 
That  cased  the  ethereal  beings  now  on  high; 
'T  is  but  the  outward  covering  is  thrown  by : 
This  is  the  dead  ! 

The  spirits  of  the  lost,  of  whom  we  sing, 
Have  perished  not ;  they  have  but  taken  wing, 
Changing  an  earthly  for  a  heavenly  spring : 
These  are  the  dead  ! 

Thus  is  all  nature  perfect.     Harmony 
Pervades  the  whole,  by  His  all-wise  decree. 
With  whom  are  those,  to  vast  infinity, 
We  misname  dead. 

Saxe  Holm  (a  supposed  nom  de phtme)  is  the  given 
name  of  the  writer  of  these  striking  and  impressive  lines, 
"The  Angel  of  Pain:  "  — 

Angel  of  Pain !  I  think  thy  face 
Will  be,  in  all  the  Heavenly  place, 
The  sweetest  face  that  I  shall  see. 
The  swiftest  face  to  smile  on  me. 
All  other  angels  faint  and  tire, — 
Joy  wearies,  and  forsakes  desire  ; 
Hope  falters  face  to  face  with  fate, 
And  dies,  because  it  cannot  wait ; 
And  Love  cuts  short  each  loving  day, 
Because  fond  hearts  cannot  obey 
The  subtlest  law  which  measures  bliss 
By  what  it  is  content  to  miss. 
But  thou,  O  loving,  faithful  Pain,— 
Hated,  reproached,  rejected,  slain, — • 
33 


5  14       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Dost  only  closer  cling  and  bless 
In  sweeter,  stronger  steadfastness. 
Dear,  patient  angel,  to  thine  own 
Thou  comest,  and  art  never  known 
Till  late,  in  some  lone,  twilight  place. 
The  light  of  thy  transfigured  face 
Sudden  shines  out,  and,  speechless,  they 
Know  they  have  walked  with  Christ  all  day. 

Miss  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  is  more  widely  known 
as  a  writer  of  prose  than  of  verse,  yet  her  occasional 
poems  are  full  of  a  ripe  experience.  The  little  poem 
"  Difference,"  which  we  quote  in  full,  is  a  fine  specimen 
of  her  peculiar  powers. 

Thine  the  bearing  and  forbearing 

Through  the  patient  years  ; 
Thine  the  loving  and  the  moving 

Plea  of  sacred  tears. 

Thine  the  caring  and  the  wearing 

Of  my  pain  for  me  ; 
Thine  the  sharing  and  the  bearing 

Of  my  sin  on  Thee. 

Mine  the  leaving  and  the  grieving 

Of  1  hy  mournful  eyes  ; 
Mine  the  fretting  and  forgetting 

Of  our  blood-bound  ties  ; 

Mine  the  plaining  and  complaining, 

And  complaining  still ; 
Mine  the  fearing  and  the  wearying 

Of  Thy  tender  will. 

Mine  the  wrecking.  Thine  the  building, 

Of  our  happiness  — 
My  only  Saviour,  help  me  make 

The  dreadful  difference  less. 

Eliza  Scudder,  of  Salem,  Mass.,  is  the  author  of  the 
following  — 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH,  515 


VESPER   HYMN. 

The  day  is  done,  the  weary  day  of  thought  and  toil  is  past ; 
Soft  falls  the  twilight  cool  and  gray  on  the  tired  earth  at  last : 
By  wisest  teachers  wearied,  by  gentlest  friends  oppressed, 
In  Thee  alone,  the  soul,  outworn,  refreshment  finds  and  rest. 

Bend,  gracious  Spirit,  from  above,  like  these  o'erarching  skies, 
And  to  Thy  firmament  of  love  lift  up  these  longing  eyes ; 
And,  folded  by  Thy  sheltering  hand,  in  refuge  still  and  deep, 
Let  blessed  thoughts  from  Thee  descend,  as  drop  the  dews  of  sleep. 

And  when  refreshed  the  soul  once  more  puts  on  new  life  and  power, 
Oh,  let  Thine  image,  Lord,  alone  gild  the  first  waking  hour  ! 
Let  that  dear  Presence  dawn  and  glow,  fairer  than  morn's  first  ray. 
And  Thy  pure  radiance  overflow  the  splendor  of  the  day. 

Here  follow  some  stanzas  of  an  anonymous  but  beauti- 
fully written  Lenten  Hymn. 

'Tis  Lenten  tide  for  sinful  souls  ! 
The  barb  is  in  our  hearts  to-day,  — 

Sore  crushed  with  sense  of  fail  and  sin: 
We  feebly  strive,  and  faintly  pray, 

'Gainst  danger  near,  for  grace  within. 
We  mourn  our  pride  and  passion's  stain, — 

The  earthly  in  our  hearts  enshrined,  — 
The  rebel  flesh,  too  oft  in  vain 

Commanded  by  the  nobler  mind  ! 
And  all  of  human  curse  and  care, 

Which  lurks  life's  dangerous  paths  among, 
To  quench  the  altar-flame  of  prayer, 

Or  hush  the  heavenward  strain  of  song ! 

The  following  graceful  and  inspiring  stanzas,  which 
tend  to  incite  us  to  diligence  and  fidelity  in  the  Christian 
cause,  are  from  the  pen  of  a  lady  who  has  written  much 
for  our  sacred  anthology,  —  Mrs.  Anna  H.  Howard,  of 
Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 


5l6  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Lo  !  what  a  cloud  of  witnesses  are  ever  round  our  way, 

Sweet  spirits  of  departed  ones,  briglit  in  eternal  day  ! 

We  hear  them  not,  we  see  them  not,  but  they  hear  our  every 

tone ; 
No  darkness  hides  us  from  their  eyes,  —  we  cannot  be  alone. 

Oh,  blessed  Church  triumphant,  your  sorrows  now  are  o'er; 

Yet  with  longing  eyes  ye  watch  us  from  that  bright  and  heavenly 

shore. 
Ye  watch  around  us  night  and  day,  and  note  our  every  choice  ; 
And  when  we  fail  ye  grieve  for  us,  and  when  we  win  rejoice. 

Sweet  ministering  spirits,  be  ever  round  our  way; 
Draw  us  with  cords  invisible,  pray  for  us  when  we  pray. 
Once  ye  have  trod  the  weary  way,  and  borne  the  burden  sore  ; 
But  now  all  tears  are  wiped  away,  —  you'll  never  suffer  more. 

Then  faint  not.  Christian,  in  the  race  ;  it  will  not  be  for  long. 
The  hosts  of  heaven   are  watching  thee ;    then  in  the   Lord  be 

strong! 
Throw  off  the  weight  that  hinders,  burst  the  fetters  of  thy  sin ; 
And,  looking  unto  Jesus,  thou  the  victory  shalt  win. 

The  alternations  and  varied  phases  of  rehgious  Hfe 
are  attributable  in  part  to  natural  temperament  or  pre- 
disposition. Some  persons  are  constitutionally  of  a 
morbid  and  gloomy  or  ascetic  nature;  others  are  of  a 
sunny  and  buoyant  temper,  and  enter  into  their  pursuits 
with  enthusiasm,  and  live  always  in  the  hope  of  a  glad 
to-morrow.  It  is  great  injustice  to  Christianity  for  its 
votaries  to  wear  perpetually  the  guise  of  mourning  and 
sadness,  since  it  is  the  patron  of  joy  and  gladness.  It 
is  "  Good-will  to  men,"  as  well  as  "  Glory  to  God."  It 
should  be  ours  evermore  to  reflect  its  glad  spirit,  and 
scatter  the  sunshine  of  its  glory  on  all. 

The  three  fine  stanzas  following  arc  from  the  poetic 
and  practised  pen  of  Prof.  William  C.  Richards,  of 
Chicago. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  517 


TRUE    LIFE. 

Life  is  a  struggle  all  too  sharp,  we  say, 

As,  spent  from  some  close  strife  with  want  and  wrong, 

We  miss  all  sweetness  in  the  airy  song 
That  from  a  thousand  throats  greets  the  young  day. 
We  wake  from  murdered  sleep,  and  rise  to  pray; 

Yet  in  our  prayers  our  discontent  prolong, 

Because  our  clamorous  griefs  about  us  throng, 
And  friglit  our  unobtrusive  joys  away. 

For  these  one  song  of  sweet  thanksgiving  poured  — 
For  home  and  love  and  health  and  daily  bread  — 
Would  with  its  tones  our  coward  fears  strike  dead. 

And  make  a  feast  upon  the  scanty  board : 
To  prize  what  we  possess,  not  what  we  miss, 
The  charm  and  crown  of  happy  living  is. 


THE   BLESSED   BOND. 

Earth's  bonds  of  love,  which  death  dissolves  to  dust. 
Are  strong  and  dear  and  tender  till  they  break, 
And,  broken,  still  leave  tears  for  the  sweet  sake 

Of  one  whose  faultless  frailty  mocked  our  trust. 

Thus  all  earth's  fondest  ties  of  friendship  must 
Of  mortal  doom  and  mockery  yet  partake. 
While  homes  are  dark,  and  hearts  with  rending  ache. 

Draped  in  the  woe  of  death's  insatiate  lust. 

Were  there  no  ties  but  these,  to  live  were  vain, 

For  who  would  live  and  love  but  for  a  day ! 

Oh,  blessed  beam,  that  drives  this  gloom  away 
With  heat  divine  that  welds  earth-bonds  again ! 

There  is  a  tie  nor  death  nor  time  can  sever,  — 

A  blessM  tie  that  makes  souls  one  forever  ! 


THE    DIVINE    LEADER. 

When  weary  tasks  and  wasting  toils  are  done, 

And  we  in  human  doubt  review  the  day. 

To  take  the  trend  of  all  our  devious  way 

And  cast  our  gain  or  loss  beneath  its  sun. 

How  often  have  our  hearts  fresh  courage  won. 

And  hope  that  kept  all  gloomy  shapes  at  bay. 


5l8       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

When  at  the  altar  we  have  come  to  pray, 
And  prayer  in  some  old  hymn  of  praise  begun  ! 

Among  the  strains  inspired,  if  not  divine, 
That  bear  our  quickened  thoughts  on  heavenward  wing, 
Is  any  one  more  sweet  we  pilgrims  sing. 

While  heaven's  ray  brightens  in  the  sun's  decline, 
Than  that  our  fathers  fed  their  faith  upon, 
Singing,  "  Thus  far  the  Lord  hath  led  me  on  !  " 

The  public  is  indebted  to  Mrs.  Celia  Thaxter  for  many 
beautiful  poems.  There  is  a  wholesome  lesson  in  all 
she  writes.  From  a  poem  on  "  Courage "  we  copy  a 
few  verses. 

Because  I  hold  it  sinful  to  despond, 

And  will  not  let  the  bitterness  of  life 
Blind  me  with  burning  tears,  but  look  beyond 

Its  tumult  and  its  strife  ; 

Because  I  lift  my  head  above  the  mist. 

Where  the  sun  shines  and  the  broad  breezes  blow, 

By  every  ray  and  every  rain-drop  kissed 
That  God's  love  doth  bestow,  — 

Think  you  I  find  no  bitterness  at  all  ? 

No  burden  to  be  borne,  like  Christian's  pack  ? 
Think  you  there  are  no  ready  tears  to  fall 

Because  I  keep  them  back  ? 

Why  should  I  hug  life's  ills  with  cold  reserve, 
To  curse  myself  and  all  who  loved  me  !     Nay ! 

A  thousand  times  more  good  than  I  deserve 
God  gives  me  every  day. 

The  following  beautiful  lines  were  written  by  the  Rev. 
Theodore  Monod,  of  Paris,  when  he  visited  England  in 
1875.  They  have  since  been  copied  into  many  religious 
journals,  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic. 

Oh  the  bitter  shame  and  sorrow  that  a  time  could  ever  be 
When  I  let  the  Saviour's  pity  plead  in  vain,  and  proudly  answered  : 
"  All  of  self,  and  none  of  Thee  !  " 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  519 

But  He  found  me,  I  beheld  Him  bleeding  on  the  accursed  tree, 
Heard  Him  pray  "  Forgive  them,  Father,"  and  my  wistful  soul  said 
faintly,  — 
*'  Some  of  self,  and  some  of  Thee  !  " 

Day  by  day  His  tender  mercy,  healing,  helping,  full  and  free. 
Sweet  and  strong,  and  ah,  so  patient,  brought  me  lower,  while  I 
whispered, 
"  Less  of  self,  and  more  of  Thee  !  " 

Higher  than  the  highest  heavens,  deeper  than  the  deepest  sea. 
Lord,  Thy  love  at  last  hath  conquered ;  grant  me  now  my  soul's 
desire,  — 
"  None  of  self,  and  all  of  Thee  !  " 


O  Thou,  blest  Spirit  of  the  Pentecost ! 

Deign  to  descend  and  dwell  within  my  heart ; 

Unbar  its  portals.  Heaven's  sweet  peace  impart, 

Pour  its  pure  radiance  on  my  earth-dimmed  eyes, 

Bid  my  dull  soul  to  its  high  raptures  rise, 

So  that  I  shall  earth's  pomps  and  lures  despise, 

And  gladly  count,  for  Christ,  all  else  as  lost ! 

Miss  M.  E.  Moore,  of  Alabama,  exhibits  superior 
poetic  ability,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  following  selected 
stanzas  from  her  volume  of  poems  published  in  1867. 

Going  out  to  fame  and  triumph,  going  out  to  love  and  light; 
Coming  in  to  pain  and  sorrow,  coming  in  to  gloom  and  night : 
Going  out  vi^ith  joy  and  gladness,  coming  in  with  woe  and  sin,  — 
Ceaseless  stream  of  restless  pilgrims  going  out  and  coming  in. 
Through  the  portals  of  the  homestead,  from  beneath  the  blooming 

vine  ; 
To  the  trumpet- tones  of  glory,  where  the  bays  and  laurels  twine  : 
From  the  loving  home  caresses  to  the  chill  voice  of  the  world  — 
Going  out  with  gallant  canvas  to  the  summer  breeze  unfurled. 


Going  out  with  hopes  of  glory,  coming  in  with  sorrows  dark  ; 
Going  out  with  sails  all  flying,  coming  in  with  mastless  bark  ! 


520       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Restless  streams  of  pilgrims,  striving  wreaths  of  fame  and  love  to 

win, 
From  the  door-ways  of  the  homestead  going  out  and  coming  in ! 

The  following  choice  poem  was  composed  by  a  Scot- 
tish lady,  Carolina,  Baroness  Nairn,  in  1842,  when  in  her 
seventy-sixth  year. 

Would  you  be  young  again  ?     So  would  not  I  — 
One  tear  to  memory  given,  onward  I'll  hie. 
Life's  dark  flood  forded  o'er,  all  but  at  rest  on  shore, 
Say,  would  you  plunge  once  more,  with  home  so  nigh? 

If  you  might,  would  you  now  retrace  your  way  ? 
Wander  through  stormy  wilds,  faint  and  astray? 
Night's  gloomy  watches  fled,  morning  all  beaming  red, 
Hope's  smiles  around  us  shed,  heavenward  —  away! 

Where,  then,  are  those  dear  ones,  our  joy  and  delight  ? 
Dear,  and  more  dear,  though  now  hidden  from  sight. 
Where  they  rejoice  to  be,  there  is  the  land  for  m.e. 
Fly,  time,  —  fly  speedily  !     Come,  life  and  light ! 


TWELFTH    EVENING. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH. 

{Concluded.') 


^ 


TWELFTH    EVENING. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH. 

{Co7icluded.) 

T^AITH  in  the  unseen  has  been  efifectively  illustrated 
-*•  by  reference  to  the  magnetic  needle.  Why  should 
a  piece  of  steel,  when  touched  by  a  magnet,  tremble  ?  Or 
why  should  the  magnet,  when  suspended  on  a  pivot, 
point  invariably  to  the  north  pole?  Who  can  explain 
the  phenomenon?  All  we  do  know  is  that  it  is  con- 
trolled or  influenced  by  what  is  called  the  magnetic 
current,  or  terrestrial  magnetism.  What  constitutes  that 
current,  or  how  it  is  developed,  surpasses  our  knowledge. 
There  is  one  thing  we  do  know,  however,  and  that  is 
that  everywhere  and  under  all  circumstances,  except 
when  affected  by  disturbing  influences,  the  magnetic 
needle  will  turn  northward.  This  is  a  fact  never  doubted 
by  the  mariner ;  for  while  during  fair  weather  he  may 
navigate  his  ship  by  sun  or  star,  when  the  heavens  are 
overcast  and  the  tempest  is  on,  despite  the  dark  storm- 
clouds  that  envelop  them,  he  consults  his  magnet,  — 
his  only  resource  for  the  guidance  of  his  ship's  course : 
this, his  trust  in  thetmseen,  —  is  it  ever  betrayed?  Is  not 
this  fact  in  natural  science  suggestive  of  a  similar  faith 


524       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS, 

in  the  spiritual  realm,  in  the  unseen  Saviour,  —  the  mag- 
netic current  of  prayer,  freeing  us  from  the  disturbing 
influences  of   earth    and  attracting   us  heavenward? 

THE    MIGNONETTE    AND    THE    OAK.* 

I  marked  a  child,  —  a  pretty  child,  a  gentle  blue-eyed  thing, — 

She  sowed  the  scented  mignonette  one  sunny  day  in  spring; 
And  while  the  tiny  grains  she  sowed. 
The  stream  of  thought  thus  sweetly  flowed : 

"  On  this  dear  bed  the  dew  shall  fall,  and  yon  bright  sun  shall 
shine  ; 

'Twill  spring  and  grow  and  blossom  then,  and  it  will  all  be  mine  ! " 
And  the  fair  thing  laughed  in  childish  glee, 
To  think  what  a  harvest  hers  should  be. 

1  saw  a  man  an  acorn  plant  under  the  hillside  bare,  — 

No  spreading  branch,  no  shading  rock,  lent  friendly  shelter  there; 

And  thus,  as  o'er  the  spot  he  bowed, 

I  heard  him,  —  for  he  thought  aloud  : 
"  Frail  thing  !   ere  glossy  leaf  shall  grace   thy  wide  and  sturdy 

bough, 
I  may  be  laid  among  the  dead,  as  low  as  thou  art  now ; 

Yet  wilt  thou  rise  in  rugged  strength. 

And  crown  this  barren  height  at  length." 

Each  had  a  hope,  —  the  childish  heart  looked  to  a  summer's  joy  ; 
The  manly  thought,  strong  and  mature,  looks  to  futurity. 

Each  trusts  to  nature's  genial  power,  — 

He  wants  a  forest ;  she,  a  flower. 
Who    sows    the   seed  of    heavenly  truth    and    doubts   Almighty 

power  ? 
Will  years  less  surely  bring  the  oak  than  months  the  summer  flower  ? 

Then  sow,  although  no  fruit  you  see  : 

God  "  in  due  time  "  will  raise  the  tree. 

The  following  poem,  by  Dr.  Charles  T.  Brooks,  was 
suggested  by  an  allusion  in  the  Memoir  of  the  Rev. 
O.  W.  B.  Peabody :  — 

•  Rev.  J.  Hal),  D.D.,  of  New  York  City. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  525 

Golden  gleams  of  noonday  fell 

On  the  pavement  of  the  cell, 

And  the  monk  still  lingered  there 

In  the  ecstasy  of  prayer. 

Fuller  floods  of  glory  streamed 

Through  the  window,  and  it  seemed 

Like  an  answering  glow  of  love 

From  the  countenance  above. 

On  the  silence  of  the  cell 

Break  the  faint  tones  of  a  bell. 

'Tis  the  hour  when  at  the  gate 

Crowds  of  poor  and  hungry  wait, 

Wan  and  wistful,  to  be  fed 

With  the  friar  of  mercy's  bread. 

Hark  !  that  chime  of  heaven's  far  bells  ! 

On  the  monk's  rapt  ear  it  swells. 

No  !  fond,  flattering  dream,  away  ! 

Mercy  calls  ;  no  longer  stay  ! 

Whom  thou  yearnest  here  to  find 

In  the  musings  of  thy  mind,  — 

God  and  Jesus,  lo  !  they  wait 

Knocking  at  thy  convent  gate. 

From  his  knees  the  monk  arose. 

With  full  heart  and  hand  he  goes ; 

At  his  gate  the  poor  relieves, 

Gives  a  blessing,  and  receives  ; 

To  his  cell  returned,  and  there 

Found  the  angel  of  his  prayer. 

Who  with  radiant  features  said, 

"  Hadst  thou  stayed,  I  must  have  fled." 

A  strong  lesson  of  faith  maybe  found  in  S.  G.  Brown- 
ing's poem,  "  Amen."     We  insert  a  few  verses. 

I  cannot  say, 
Beneath  the  pressure  of  life's  cares  to-day, 

I  joy  in  these  ; 

But  I  can  say 
That  I  had  rather  walk  this  rugged  way, 

If  Him  it  please. 


/ 

526       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

I  do  not  see 
Why  God  should  e'en  permit  some  things  to  be, 

When  He  is  love  ; 

But  I  can  see, 
Though  often  dimly  through  the  mystery, 

His  hand  above  ! 

I  do  not  look 
Upon  the  present,  nor  in  Nature's  book. 

To  read  my  fate  ; 

But  I  do  look 
For  promised  blessings  in  God's  Holy  Book  ; 

And  I  can  wait. 

I  may  not  try 
To  keep  the  hot  tears  back ;  but  hush  that  sigh, 

"  It  might  have  been," 

And  try  to  still 
Each  rising  murmur,  and  to  God's  sweet  will 

Respond  "  Amen  !  " 

The  lines  following  are  from  a  posthumous  volume  of 
graceful  Poems,  by  the  Rev.  E.  A.  Washburn,  D.D. 

Visions  of  the  unseen  glory  Milton  saw  in  his  eclipse. 

Paradise  to  outward  gazers  lost,  with  no  apocalypse  : 

Holier  Clirists  and  veiled  Madonnas  painted  were  on  Raphael's  soul ; 

Melodies  he  could  not  utter  o'er  Beethoven's  ear  would  roll. 

Ever  climbs  the  high  Ideal  rosy  peaked  above  our  eyes  ; 

Ever  near  the  Happy  Islands,  shoreless  the  horizon  flies. 

Not  the  brimming  cups  of  wisdom  may  the  thirsty  spirit  slake. 

And  the  molten  gold  in  pouring  will  the  mould  in  pieces  break. 

Voice  within  our  innjost  being  calling  deep  to  answering  deep  ! 

Smiting  like  the  morning  sunbeam  on  the  leaden  lids  of  sleep  ! 

All  our  joy  is  in  our  future,  and  our  march  our  only  rest : 

Still  the  True  reveals  the  Truer,  still  the  Good  foretells  the  Best ! 

The  following  stanzas  were,  it  is  said,  the  production 
of  a  converted  Brahmin,  of  the  highest  caste,  named 
Ellen  L.  Goveh,  who  became  the  adopted  daughter  of 
the  Rev.  W.  T.  Stone,  of  Bradford,  England. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  52/ 

In  the  secret  of  His  presence  how  my  soul  dehghts  to  hide, 
Oh,  how  precious  are  the  lessons  which  I  learn  at  Jesus'  side  ! 
Earthly  cares  can  never  vex  me,  neither  trials  lay  me  low ; 
For  when  Satan  comes  to  tempt  me,  to  the  "  secret  place  "  I  go. 

When   my  soul  is  faint   and  thirsty,   'neath  the  shadow   of  His 

wing 
There  is  cool  and  pleasant  shelter,  and  a  fresh  and  crystal  spring ; 
And  my  Saviour  rests  beside  me,  as  we  hold  communion  sweet  : 
If  I  tried,  I  could  not  utter  what  He  says  when  thus  we  meet. 

Only  this  I  know  :  I  tell  Him  all  my  doubts  and  griefs  and  fears  ; 
Oh,  how  patiently  He  listens,  and  my  drooping  soul  He  cheers. 
Do  you  think  He  ne'er  reproves  me  ?     What  a  false  friend  He 

would  be 
If  He  never  told  me  of  the  sins  which  He  must  surely  see. 

Do  you  think  that  I  could  love  Him  half  so  well  as  now  I  ought 
If  He  did  not  tell  me  plainly  of  each  sinful  word  and  thought  ? 
No  !  He  is  so  very  faithful,  and  that  makes  me  trust  Him  more ; 
For  I  know  that  He  does  love  me,  though  He  wounds  me  very  sore. 

Would   you    like   to    know   the    sweetness    of    the    secret   of  the 

Lord? 
Go  and  hide  beneath  His  shadow  ;  this  shall  then  be  your  reward  ; 
And  whene'er  you  leave  the  silence  of  that  happy  meeting-place, 
You  must  mind  and  bear  the  image  of  your  Master  in  your  face. 

You  will  surely  lose  the  blessing  and  the  fulness  of  your  joy 

If  you  let  dark  clouds  distress  you,  and  your  inward  peace  destroy. 

You  may  always  be  abiding,  if  you  will  rest  at  Jesus'  side  ; 

In  the  secret  of  His  presence  you  may  every  moment  hide. 

Eleanor  Kirk  is  the  author  of  the  following :  — 

A  sweeter  song  than  e'er  was  sung  by  poet,  priest,  or  sages  ; 

A  song  which  through  all  heaven  has  rung,  adown  through  all  the 

ages; 
A  precious  strain  of  sweet  accord,  a  note  of  cheer  from  Christ  our 

Lord,  — 
List !  as  it  vibrates  full  and  free,  O  grieving  heart,  —  "  Come  unto 

Me  !  " 


528       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

*•  Come  unto  Me!"     The  way's  not  long,  His  hands  are  stretched 

to  meet  thee ; 
Now  still  thy  sobbing,  list  the  song  which  everywhere  shall  greet 

thee. 
Here  at  His  feet  your  burden  lay;  why  'neath  it  bend  another  day, 
Since  one  so  loving  calls  to  thee,  "  O  heavy-laden,  come  to  Me." 

The  following  pathetic  stanzas,  entitled  "'  Sorrow," 
are  among  the  anonymous  Christian  lyrics  that  merit 
permanent  record. 

Upon  my  lips  she  laid  her  touch  divine, 
And  merry  speech  and  careless  laughter  died ; 

She  fixed  her  melancholy  eyes  on  mine, 
And  would  not  be  denied. 

I  saw  the  west  wind  loose  his  cloudlets  white. 
In  flocks  careering  through  the  April  sky  ; 

I  could  not  sing,  though  joy  was  at  its  height,  — 
For  she  stood  silent  by. 

I  watched  the  lovely  evening  fade  away, — 
A  mist  was  lightly  drawn  across  the  stars. 

She  broke  my  quiet  dream  ;   I  heard  her  say, 
"  Behold  your  prison-bars  ! 

"  Earth's  shadows  shall  not  satisfy  your  soul,  — 
This  beauty  of  the  world  in  which  you  live  ; 

The  crowning  grace  tliat  sanctifies  the  whole,  — 
That,  I  alone  can  give." 

I  heard,  and  shrank  away  from  her  afraid  ; 

But  still  she  held  me,  and  would  still  abide. 
Youth's  bounding  pulses  slackened  and  obeyed 

With  slowly  ebbing  tide. 

"  Look  thou  beyond  the  evening  sky,"  she  said, 
"  Beyond  the  clianging  splendors  of  the  day  ; 

Accept  the  pain,  the  weariness,  the  dread,  — 
Accept,  and  bid  me  stay." 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  529 

I  turned,  and  clasped  her  close  with  sudden  strength; 

And  slowly,  sweetly,  I  became  aware 
Within  my  arms  God's  angel  stood  at  length, 

vVhite-robed  and  calm  and  fair. 

And  now  I  look  beyond  the  evening  star, 
Beyond  the  changing  splendors  of  the  day. 

Knowing  the  pain  He  sends  more  precious  far, 
More  beautiful  than  they  ! 

In  the  following  little  poem,  Mrs.  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr, 
one  of  our  accomplishedk  American  women,  has  pre- 
sented a  truth  which  will  bring  comfort  to  many  a  one 
overburdened  with  the  cares  of  a  work-day  life. 


Yea,  Lord  !  —  Yet  some  must  serve  !     Not  all  with  tranquil  heart, 
Even  at  thy  dear  feet,  wrapped  in  devotion  sweet, 
May  sit  apart ! 

Yea,  Lord  !  —  Yet  some  must  bear  the  burden  of  the  day, 
Its  labor  and  its  heat,  while  others  at  Thy  feet 
May  muse  and  pray  ! 

Yea,  Lord  !  —  Yet  some  must  do  life's  daily  task-work  ;  some 
Who  fain  would  sing  must  toil  amid  earth's  dust  and  moil, 
While  lips  are  dumb  ! 

Yea,  Lord  !  —  Yet  man  must  earn,  and  woman  bake,  the  bread  ; 
And  some  must  watch  and  wake  early,  for  others'  sake, 
Who  pray  instead  ! 

Yea,  Lord  !  —  Yet  even  Thou  hast  need  of  earthly  care. 
I  bring  the  bread  and  wine  to  Thee,  a  guest  divine  — 
Be  this  my  prayer  ! 

Paul  H.  Hayne,  of  Charleston,  has  an  established  rep- 
utation as  a  lyric  poet;  annexed  is  one  of  his  glowing 
sonnets :  — 

The  passionate  summer's  dead,  —  the  sky's  aglow 
With  roseate  flushes  of  matured  desire  ; 
34 


530       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

The  winds  at  eve  are  musical  and  low 
As  sweeping  chords  of  a  lamenting  lyre, 
Far  up  among  the  pillared  clouds  of  fire, 

Whose  pomp  in  grand  procession  upward  grows 

With  gorgeous  blazonry  of  funeral  shows, 
To  celebrate  the  summer's  past  renown. 
Ah,  me  !  the  heavens  look  down, 

O'ershadowing  beautiful  autumnal  woods. 

And  harvest  fields  with  hoarded  increase  brown. 

And  deep-toned  majesty  of  golden  floods, 
That  lilt  their  solemn  dirges  to  the  sky 
To  swell  the  purple  pomp  that  floateth  by. 


The  year  draws  near  its  golden-hearted  prime, 

Fulfilled  of  grandeur  rounded  into  grace  ; 
We  seem  to  hear  sweet  notes  of  joyance  chime 

From  elfin  bells  through  many  a  greenwood  place. 
The  sovereign  Summer,  robed  and  garlanded. 

Looks,  steeped  in  verdure,  up  the  enchanted  skies  ; 
A  crown,  sun-woven,  round  her  royal  head, 

And  love's  warm  languor  in  her  dreamy  eyes. 
We  quaff  our  fill  of  beauty,  peace,  delight ; 

But  'mid  the  entrancing  scene  a  still  voice  saith, 
"  If  earth,  heaven's  shadow,  shows  a  face  so  bright, 

What  of  God's  summer  past  the  straits  of  death  ?  " 

The  following  poem,  entitled  "  Binding  Sheaves," 
by  Mrs.  G.  Nelson  Smith:  — 

"  Reaper,"  I  asked,  "  among  the  golden  sheaves, 

Toiling  at  noon  amid  the  falling  leaves. 

What  recompense  hast  thou  for  all  thy  toil. 

What  tithe  of  all  thy  Master's  wine  and  oil  ? 

Or  dost  thou  coin  thy  brow's  hot  drops  to  gold, 

Or  add  to  house  and  land,  or  flock  or  fold  ? " 

The  reaper  paused  from  binding  close  the  grain, 

And  said,  while  shone  his  smile  through  labor's  stain: 

"  I  do  my  Master's  work,  as  He  hath  taught. 

And  work  of  love  with  gold  was  never  bought. 


IS 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  53 1 

He  knoweth  all  of  which  my  life  hath  need,  — 
His  servants  reap  as  they  have  sown  the  seed. 
With  all  my  heart  I  bind  my  Master's  grain, 
And  love  makes  sweet  my  labor  and  my  pain." 
Then  bending  low  beneath  the  burning  sun. 
The  reaper  toiled  until  the  day  was  done. 
"  Lo  !  here,"  I  said,  "  love's  largess  seemeth  more 
Than  cruse  of  wine  or  oil  that  runneth  o'er; 
If  work  of  love  such  store  of  wealth  doth  yield, 
I  too  will  labor  in  the  Master's  field." 


THE   OLD   HOME. 

*'  Return,  return,"  the  voices  cried, 
"  To  your  old  valley,  far  away  ; 

For  softly  on  the  river  tide 

The  tender  lights  and  shadows  play; 

And  all  the  banks  are  gay  with  flowers, 
And  all  the  hills  are  sweet  with  thyme  ; 

You  cannot  find  such  bloom  as  ours 
In  yon  bright  foreign  clime  !  " 

For  me,  I  thought,  the  olives  grow. 
The  sun  lies  warm  upon  the  vines  ; 

And  yet  I  will  arise  and  go 

To  that  dear  valley  dim  with  pines  ! 

Old  loves  are  dwelling  there,  I  said. 

Untouched  by  years  of  change  and  pain 

Old  faiths,  that  I  had  counted  dead, 
Shall  rise  and  live  again. 

And  still  "  Return,  return,"  they  sung, 
"  With  us  abides  eternal  calm  ; 

In  these  old  fields,  where  you  were  young, 
We  cull  the  heart's-ease  and  the  balm ; 

For  us  the  flocks  and  herds  increase. 
And  children  play  around  our  feet ; 

At  eve  the  sun  goes  down  in  peace  — 
Return,  for  rest  is  sweet." 


532  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Then  I  arose,  and  crossed  the  sea, 
And  sought  that  home  of  younger  days  : 

No  love  of  old  was  left  to  me 

(For  love  has  wings,  and  seldom  stays); 

But  there  were  graves  upon  the  hill. 
And  sunbeams  shining  on  the  sod, 

And  low  winds  breathing,  "  Peace,  be  still ! 
Lost  things  are  found  in  God."  * 

The  author  of  the  following  fine  lines  is  unknown; 
they  arc  copied  from  the  "  London  Christian :  "  — 

Not  as  a  speck  revolving  through  the  limitless  realms  of  space, 
Not  as  an  atom  lying  in  some  dim  and  darksome  place. 
But  as  myself  He  knows  me,  and  will  keep  me  throughout  the  year : 
My  Guide  when  I  grope  in  darkness,  my  Strength  when  I  faint 
with  fear. 

Not  as  a  something  somewhere,  hurrying  on  through  life, 

With  sometimes  a  cry  heard  faintly  as  it  wearily  sinks  in  the  strife; 

Though  at  times  I  have  almost  thought  it,  and  fancied  my  God  was 

afar, 
He  has  risen  above  my  darkness,  and  lit  my  night  with  His  star. 
As  myself,  and  not  as  another,  knowing  my  voice  so  well ; 
Yea,  knowing  my  inmost  wishes  and  the  thoughts  that  I  could  not 

tell: 
So  holy,  I  bow  before  Him,  —  so  good  that  to  none  but  Him 
I  could  tell  my  deepest  longings,  and  the  doubts  that  are  strange 

and  dim. 
From  the  rainbow  throne  of  glory  I  see  Him  bend  to  me, — 
I  know  that  the  God  of  ages  is  working  gloriously  ; 
And  I  hear  the  great  Creator,  whose  angels  are  a  flame. 
Say  to  a  child  of  Adam,  "  I  have  called  thee  by  thy  name ! " 


Dear  pilgrim  !  when  thy  faith  is  like  to  fail, 
Remember  Him  who  lives  within  the  veil  ; 
'Tis  one  who  trod  thy  thorny  path  before, 
Who  will  not  fail  thee  till  thy  toils  are  o'er; 
Whose  voice  of  love  was  heard  in  Galilee, 
Who  now  is  gently  calling.  Follow  me  ! 

•  Sarah  Doudney. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  533 

Mrs.  Lucy  Randolph  Fleming  has  voiced  a  common 
feehng  in  her  little  poem  "  He  Leadeth  Me,"  from  which 
we  extract  the  following  verses :  — 

By  the  right  way  He  leadeth,  when  I  go 
Through  the  green  pastures,  where  still  waters  flow ; 
Where  not  one  note  of  discord  mars  life's  song, 
And  each  glad  morning  new  His  mercies  throng. 

By  the  right  way  He  leadeth,  when  my  soul 
Falters  in  tempests,  where  the  billows  roll; 
When  sun  and  stars  seem  fled  from  out  my  sky, 
Choose  Thou  the  way,  my  Lord,  so  Thou  be  nigh. 

The  path  He  leadeth  me,  through  dark  or  bright; 
In  days  of  sickness,  days  of  health.  He  chooses  right : 
For  I  can  only  see  one  step,  —  no  more ; 
And  He  who  leadeth  me  knows  all  before. 

Mrs.  Herrick  Johnson  is  the  writer  of  the  beautiful 
poem  "  Faultless,"  from  which  we  give  the  opening  and 


"  Faultless  in  His  glory's  presence  !  " 
All  the  soul  within  me  stirred, 

All  my  heart  reached  up  to  heaven 
At  the  wonder  of  that  word. 

"  Able  to  present  me  faultless  ? 

Lord,  forgive  my  doubt,"  I  cried  ; 
"Thou  didst  once,  to  loving  doubt,  show 

Hands  and  feet  and  riven  side. 

"  Oh,  for  me  build  up  some  ladder. 
Bright  with  golden  round  and  round. 

That  my  hope  this  word  may  compass, 
Reaching  Faith's  high  vantage-ground ! 

"  In  some  heavenly  alembic. 

Snowy  white  from  crimson  bring ; 

Stamp  his  name  on  each,  and  bear  them 
To  the  palace  of  the  king." 


534       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Oh,  what  wondrous  vision  wrapped  me ! 

Heaven's  gates  seemed  open  wide  ; 
Even  /  stood  clear  and  faultless, 

Close  beneath  the  pierced  side. 

Faultless  in  His  glory's  presence  ! 

Faultless  in  that  dazzling  light ! 
Christ's  own  love,  majestic,  tender. 

Made  my  crimson  snowy  white  ! 

From  "The  Canterbury  Hymnal"  these  stanzas  come 
to  us ;  and  very  truthfully  they  express  the  Christian 
sentiment  of  faith  :  — 

We  were  not  with  the  faithful  few 
Who  stood  Thy  bitter  cross  around. 

Nor  heard  Thy  prayer  for  those  that  slew, 
Nor  felt  that  earthquake  rend  the  ground : 

We  saw  no  spear-wound  pierce  Thy  side  ; 

Yet  we  believe  that  Thou  hast  died. 

No  angel's  message  met  our  ear 
On  that  first  glorious  Easter-day,  — 

"  The  Lord  is  risen,  He  is  not  here  ; 
Come  see  the  place  where  Jesus  lay!  '* 

But  we  believe  that  Thou  didst  quell 

The  banded  powers  of  death  and  hell. 

We  saw  Thee  not  return  on  high  ; 

And  now,  our  longing  sight  to  bless, 
No  ray  of  glory  from  the  sky 

Shines  down  upon  our  wilderness; 
Yet  we  believe  that  Thou  art  there, 
And  seek  Thee,  Lord,  in  praise  and  prayer. 

The  following  graceful  lyric  has  been  written  for  this 
volume  by  Charles  Alex.  Nelson,  of  New  York,  who  is 
a  frequent  contributor  to  our  religious  and  literary 
journals:  — 


RECENT  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH.         535 

I  stood  on  the  shore  where  the  moonliglit 
O'er  the  shimmering  wavelets  gleamed; 

Like  a  rippling  streamlet  of  silver 
Or  the  pathway  to  heaven  it  seemed. 

The  low  laughing  voice  of  the  waters, 

Gently  kissing  the  silvery  sand, 
Floated  by  like  the  whispers  of  loved  ones 

Echoed  back  from  the  heavenly  land. 

Entranced  I  saw  not  the  storm-cloud 

Rolling  angrily  up  from  the  west, 
Till  the  loud  rumbling  thunder  aroused  me, 

As  the  wind  smote  the  sea  on  its  breast. 

The  silver  stream  vanished  in  darkness  ; 

Sobbing  billows  swept  mournfully  by  ; 
Deep  gloom  settled  thickly  around  me, 

Like  a  pall  o'er  earth,  ocean,  and  sky. 

The  wind  lashed  the  waters  in  fury  ; 

The  trembling  waves  whitened  with  fear; 
But  above  all  the  wrack  of  the  tempest 

The  moonlight  shone  steady  and  clear. 

Each  cloud  has  its  silvery  lining, 

Though  darkly  above  us  it  frown  ; 
For  upon  all  our  trials  and  sorrows 

Our  Father  looks  lovingly  down. 

The  Rev.  W.  Gladden  is  the  author  of  these  beautiful 
lines,  which  he  entitles  "Ultima  Veritas:  "  — 

In  the  bitter  waves  of  woe,  beaten  and  tossed  about 

By  the  sullen  winds  that  blow  from  the  desolate  shores  of  doubt, 

Where  the  anchors  that  faith  has  cast  are  dragging  in  the  gale, 

1  am  quietly  holding  fast  to  the  things  that  cannot  fail : 

I  know  that  right  is  right,  that  it  is  not  good  to  lie  ; 

That  love  is  better  than  spite,  and  a  neighbor  than  a  spy ; 

1  know  that  passion  needs  the  leash  of  a  sober  mind  ; 

1  know  that  generous  deeds  some  sure  reward  will  find ; 

That  the  rulers  must  obey,  that  the  givers  shall  increase  ; 

That  Duty  lights  the  way  for  the  beautiful  feet  of  Peace  ; 


536  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACKED    POETS. 

In  the  darkest  night  of  the  year,  when  the  stars  have  all  gone 

out, 
That  courage  is  better  than  fear,  that  faith  is  truer  than  doubt ; 
And  fierce  though  the  fiends  may  fight,  and  long  though  the  angels 

hide, 
I  know  that  truth  and  right  have  the  universe  on  their  side ! 
And  that  somewhere  beyond  the  stars  is  a  love  that  is  better  than 

fate: 
When  the  night  unlocks  her  bars,  I  shall  see  Him,  —  and  I  will 

wait ! 

The  lines  following,  "Lux  in  Tenebris"  are  by  Dr. 
Dorus   Clarke :  — 

Blest  Saviour  !  if  I'm  thine,  scatter  my  doubts  away, 

And  on  this  darkened  soul  of  mine  pour  beams  of  heavenly  day. 

Give  me  some  taste  of  Heaven  while  in  this  vale  of  tears, — 

Some  opening  gleams  and  transports  of  beatific  years ; 

Some  splendors  of  Thy  throne  to  gild  this  dreary  land  ; 

Some  visions  of  the  golden  crown,  prepared  at  Thy  right  hand. 

Some  naturalists  desiring  to  obtain  some  wild-flowers 
that  grew  on  the  side  of  a  dangerous  gorge  in  the  Scotch 
Highlands,  offered  a  boy  a  liberal  sum  to  descend  by  a 
rope,  and  get  them.  He  looked  at  the  money,  thought 
of  the  danger,  and  replied,  "  /  will  if  my  father  zvill  hold 
the  roper  With  unshrinking  nerves,  he  suffered  his 
father  to  put  the  rope  about  him,  lower  him  into  that 
abyss,  and  suspend  him  there  while  he  filled  his  basket 
with  the  coveted  flowers.  Here  is  a  lesson  of  filial  trust 
suggested,  which  we  supplement  with  an  appeal  in  metre 
by  H.N.  Fuller:  — 

Though  the  clouds  be  thickly  gathered, 

And  obscure  each  ray  of  light, 
Turning  Hope's  refulgent  day-time 

Into  I)ouI:)t's  depressing  night, 
Yet  behind  the  heavy  shadows 

Beams  the  sun  of  endless  day  ; 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  537 

But  that  sun  will  never  reach  us 
Till  the  doubts  shall  pass  away. 

Though  the  heart  be  bowed  in  sorrow, 

Sternest  griefs  oppress  the  soul,  — 
Though  the  tide  of  trouble  bear  us 

Where  its  waters  blackest  roll, — 
Yet  there  is  a  voice  that's  waiting, 

Joy  and  peace  to  speak  to  all ; 
But  that  voice  will  never  reach  us 

Till  for  it  our  own  shall  call. 

Though  a  sense  of  grievous  sinning 

Crush  us  by  its  mighty  weight, 
Though  we  feel  that  God  has  left  us 

To  our  self-appointed  fate, 
Yet  His  hand  is  always  proffered, 

When  all  other  help  has  flown  ; 
But  His  hand  will  never  reach  us 

Till  we  grasp  it  with  our  own. 

"  Perhaps  nothing  proves  so  certainly  how  we  are 
related  to  the  unseen  world  as  our  prayers.  If  they 
be  tedious  and  irksome,  cold  and  tasteless,  it  is  a  sure 
proof  that  our  delight  is  not  in  God,  and  that  we  love 
Him  chiefly,  if  not  only,  in  the  reason ;  that  we  are  liv- 
ing, if  not  lives  of  sense,  at  least  of  intellect  and  imagina- 
tion, rather  than  of  the  will.  So  long  as  we  are  in  this 
state,  however  much  this  world  may  lose  its  hold  upon 
us,  the  next  has  not  as  yet  won  our  hearts."  * 

Robert  Hall,  referring  to  the  Christian's  faith,  says : 
"  It  appears  in  its  power  and  glory  when  it  enacts  its 
triumphs  over  the  tomb ;  when  it  takes  up  its  votaries 
where  the  world  leaves  them,  and  fills  the  breach  with 
immortal  hopes  in  dying  moments." 

M.  Carrie  More  is  the  author  of  that  favorite  poem, 
"  The  Shadow  of  the  Cross."     Here  are  some  verses :  — 


538       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Have  you  read  the  mystic  story  told  in  quaint  old  allegory, 

Of  the  cross? 
How  its  shadow,  softly  stealing,  to  all  things  gives  life  and  healing, 

And  the  throng 
Innocent  and  white-robed  sweeping  on  their   way,  yet  stainless 
keeping, 

While  the  song 
Thrills  the  shining  fruits  and  flowers  nesthng  in  the  garden  bowers  ? 

Precious  Cross  ! 
'Tis  the  shadow  of  the  Cross. 


Then,  fellow-pilgrim,  lose  not  heart, 

Though  Satan  and  his  hosts  assail ; 
For  others  well  have  borne  their  part 

'Gainst  foes  as  strong,  with  arm  as  frail. 
The  world,  the  flesh,  their  foes  within, 

They  battled  long  with  bated  breath  ; 
Full  often  mourned  committed  sin. 

Yet  fought  the  fight  and  kept  the  faith. 

Oh  !  never  let  the  struggle  cease, 

While  time  is  left,  while  life  remains  ; 
The  end  is  everlasting  peace, 

On  Canaan's  fair  and  sinless  plains. 
A  glorious  throng  will  surely  stand 

Upon  Mount  Zion,  glad  and  free  ; 
And  you  may  join,  at  God's  right  hand, 

The  paeans  of  their  victory. 

Sir  Atibrcy  de  Vere,  whose  published  poems  were  so 
admired  by  Wordsworth,  is  the  author  of  this  sonnet :  — 

Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 

Crumbling  away  beneath  our  very  feet ; 
Sad  is  our  life,  for  it  is  ever  flowing. 

In  current  unperceived,  because  so  fleet; 
Sad  are  our  hopes,  for  they  were  sweet  in  sowing, 

But  tares  self-sown  have  overtopped  the  wheat ; 
Sad  are  our  joys,  for  they  were  sweet  in  blowing, 

And  still,  oh,  still  their  dying  breath  is  sweet. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  539 

And  sweet  is  youth,  although  it  hath  bereft  us 
Of  that  which  made  our  childhood  sweeter  still ; 

And  sweet  is  middle  life,  for  it  hath  left  us 
A  newer  Good  to  cure  the  older  111  : 

And  sweet  are  all  things,  when  we  learn  to  prize  them 

Not  for  their  sake,  but  His  who  grants  them  or  denies  them  ! 

Ella  Wheeler  is  the  author  of  this  excellent  poetic 
homily :  — 

If  we  sit  down  at  set  of  sun 

And  count  the  things  that  we  have  done, 
And,  counting,  find  one  self-denying  act,  one  word 

That  eased  the  heart  of  him  who  heard. 
One  glance,  most  kind,  that  fell  like  sunshine  where  it  went, — 

Then  we  may  count  this  day  well-spent. 

But  if  through  all  the  livelong  day 
We've  eased  no  heart  by  yea -or  nay ;  if  through  it  all 

We've  done  no  thing  that  we  can  trace, 

That  brought  the  sunshine  to  the  face  ; 
No  act,  most  small,  that  helped  some  soul,  and  nothing  cost, — 

Then  count  that  day  as  worse  than  lost. 

Among  the  recent  writers  of  religious  poetry  "  Susan 
Coolidge "  (Miss  Woolsey)  has  taken  a  high  place. 
From  one  of  her  most  popular  poems,  "  The  Last  Hour," 
we  quote  a  few  stanzas :  — 

If  I  were  told  that  I  must  die  to-morrow. 

That  the  next  sun 
Which  sinks,  should  bear  me  past  all  fear  and  sorrow 

For  any  one. 
All  the  fight  fought,  all  the  short  journey  through, 

What  should  I  do  1 

I  do  not  think  that  I  should  shrink  or  falter, 

But  just  go  on. 
Doing  my  work,  nor  change,  nor  seek  to  alter 

Aught  that  is  gone  ; 
But  rise,  and  move,  and  love,  and  smile,  and  pray 

For  one  more  day. 


540  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

And,  lying  down  at  night  for  a  last  sleeping, 

Say  in  that  ear 
Which  hearkens  ever:  "  Lord,  within  Thy  keeping, 

How  should  I  fear  ? 
And  when  to-morrow  brings  Thee  nearer  still, 

Do  Thou  Thy  will." 

I  might  not  sleep  for  awe  ;  but  peaceful,  tender, 

My  soul  would  lie 
All  the  night  long  ;  and  when  the  morning  splendor 

Flushed  o'er  the  sky, 
I  think  that  I  could  smile,  — could  calmly  say, 

"  It  is  His  day." 

Ellice  Hopkins  is  the  writer  of  this  remarkable  poem, 
"  The  Two  Worlds :  "  — 

Two  mighty  silences,  two  worlds  unseen, 

Over  against  each  other  lie  ; 
Forever  boundlessly  apart  have  been, 
Forever  nigh. 

In  one  is  God  Himself,  and  angels  bright 

Do  congregate,  and  spirits  fair  ; 
And  lost  to  sight  in  depths  of  mystic  light. 
Our  dead  dwell  there  ! 

All  things  that  cannot  fade,  nor  fail,  nor  die, — 
Voices  beloved  and  precious  things  foregone, 
Float  up  and  up,  and  in  that  silence  high, 
With  God  grow  one. 

No  barren  silence  ;  nay,  but  such  as  over 

Lips  that  we  love,  its  spell  may  fling. 
Where  tender  word.s,  like  nested  swallows,  hover. 
Ere  they  take  wing. 

Sometimes  from  that  far  land  there  comes  a  breeze, 

Soft  airs  surprise  us  on  our  way, 
A  few  drops  from  above;  then  on  our  knees 
We  fall,  and  pray. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  54! 

And  oft  on  some  low  crimson  coast  of  cloud 

We  deem  we  see  its  far-off  strand  ; 
Our  hearts,  like  ship-wrecked  sailors,  cry  aloud, 
«  The  land,  the  land  !  " 

And  side  by  side,  that  other  world  unknown 

Drenched  in  unbroken  silence  lies,  — 
World  of  ourselves,  where  each  one  lives  alone, 
And  lonely  dies. 

With  our  unuttered  griefs,  our  joys  untold. 
Our  multitudinous  thoughts'  swift  throng. 
We  dwell ;  one  silence  them  and  us  doth  fold 
All  our  life  long. 

Out  of  those  depths  there  comes  a  cry  of  pain : 

"Ah,  pitifully.  Lord,"  it  calls, 
"  Behold  the  sorrows  of  our  hearts  !  "  and  then 
A  silence  falls. 

Die  down,  die  down,  O  thou  tormented  sea  ! 

Suffer  my  silent  world  to  fill 
With  voices  from  that  land  which  call  to  me, 
"  We  love  thee  still !  " 

In  vain,  I  hear  them  not ;  but  o'er  my  loss 

Comes  an  apocalyptic  voice,  — 
"  There  shall  be  no  more  sea,  and  thou  canst  cross." 
Rejoice  !   Rejoice  ! 

Georgiana  M.  Taylor,  of  England,   is  the  author  of 
these  fine  stanzas :  — 

Oh,  to  be  nothing,  nothing  !  only  to  lie  at  His  feet 
A  broken,  emptied  vessel,  thus  for  His  use  made  meet: 
Emptied,  that  He  may  fill  me  as  to  His  service  I  go  : 
Broken,  that  so,  unhindered,  through  me  His  life  may  flow. 

Oh,  to  be  nothing,  nothing !  an  arrow  hid  in  His  hand. 
Or  a  messenger  at  His  gateway,  waiting  for  His  command  : 
Only  an  instrument  ready  for  Him  to  use  at  His  will ; 
And  should  He  not  require  me,  willing  to  wait  there  still. 


542       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Oh,  love  so  free,  so  boundless,  which,  lifting  me,  lays  me  lower 
At  the  footstool  of  Jesus,  my  risen  Lord,  to  worsliip  and  adore  ; 
Which  fills  me  with  deeper  longing  to  have  nothing  dividing  my 

heart : 
My  all  given  up  to  Jesus,  not  keeping  back  a  part. 

"There  arc  flowers  which  ahvays  turn  their  faces  to 
the  sun.  The  storm  may  make  them  droop  for  a  httlc, 
but  still  they  point  to  the  source  of  their  life.  So  should 
the  believer,  whether  his  sky  be  clear  or  overcast,  ever 
look  toward  his  God.  Who  can  tell  the  holy  joy  which 
is  thus  poured  into  his  cup?  " 

What  then  ?     For  all  my  sins.  His  pardoning  grace  ; 
For  all  my  wants  and  woes.  His  loving-kindness; 
For  darkest  shades,  the  shining  of  God's  face, 
And  Christ's  ow-n  hand  to  lead  me  in  my  blindness. 

What  then  ?    A  shadowy  valley,  lone  and  dim, 
And  then  a  deep  and  darkly  rolling  river  ; 
And  then  a  flood  of  life,  a  seraph  hymn. 
And  God's  own  smile  forever  and  forever ! 

Here  is  another  rare  poetic  waif,  of  unavowed  author- 
ship :  — 

Sunlight  and  shadow  play  upon  the  hills. 
And  chase  each  other  on  the  restless  waves. 
Seeming  to  follow  but  their  own  sweet  wills, 
Yet  to  the  powers  above  them  faithful  slaves, 
Reflecting  every  changing  cloud  with  ease, 
Stirred  by  a  leaf,  and  dancing  with  the  breeze. 

Oh,  blessi:d  sliadows  !  who  so  kind  as  you, — 
So  patient,  humble,  generous,  and  good  ? 
Obedient  to  the  sun  and  ever  true, 
Your  presence  beautifies  the  roughest  road. 
Lends  to  the  sternest  rock  a  tender  grace, 
And  throws  a  charm  upon  the  meanest  place. 


RECENT  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH.        543 

Oh,  blessed  lights  that  make  the  shadows  sweet, 
That  make  the  world  so  exquisitely  fair  ! 
Life  is  more  full  when  lights  and  shadows  meet, 
Than  in  the  midnight  gloom  or  noonday  glare  ; 
And  human  hearts  have  little  tenderness 
Till  grief  and  joy  have  met  in  fond  caress. 

Another  poem  expressive  of  the  same  absolute  belief 
in  God's  providence,  even  though  it  be  a  "  frowning 
providence,"  is  entitled  "  Sometime."  Apart  from  its 
own  intrinsic  beauty,  the  poem  possesses  an  additional 
interest  in  the  fact  that  from  it  was  taken  the  line,  — 

"  Then  be  content,  poor  heart !  " 

which  is  engraved  upon  the  monument  erected  by  W.  W. 
Corcoran  to  the  memory  of  John  Howard  Payne.  In 
this  connection  J.  M.  B.  McNary  made  the  following 
statement  in  one  of  our  daily  papers :  *  — 

"  The  poem,  said  to  be  by  an  obscure  poet,  from  which  the 
line  — 

'Then  be  content,  poor  heart ! ' 

is  taken,  and  so  extensively  quoted,  on  the  memorial  at  Malta, 
is  to  be  found  in  'A  Gift  of  Gentians,'  by  Mrs.  May  Riley  Smith. 
The  poem  was  famous  long  years  before  the  author  emerged 
from  her  self-imposed  obscurity.  Her  poems  are  in  many 
homes,  carrying  healing  balm  to  the  heart-broken.  Nearly  fif- 
teen years  ago  this  poem  of  hers  was  quoted  by  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Shipman,  of  Christ  Church,  New  York,  at  the  close  of  an  im- 
pressive sermon  delivered  at  Lexington,  Kentucky.  I  was  pres- 
ent ;  and  so  deep  an  impression  was  made  on  me  by  the  reading 
that  after  service  I  asked  for  the  name  of  the  writer.  Dr.  Ship- 
man  replied  that  it  was  Adelaide  Procter,  but  going  to  his  study 
returned  to  say  he  had  been  mistaken,  and  gave  me  the  author's 
name.     We  both  thought  it  remarkably  like  Adelaide  Procter's 

*  N.  Y.  Tribune. 


544      EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

'  If  Thou  Couldst  Know.'  In  time  I  copied  the  poem  for  sor- 
rowing friends,  who  by  chance,  while  riding  out  at  Richfield 
Springs  when  the  author  was  in  the  party  discovered  her  iden- 
tity through  mention  of  the  verses.  It  was  characteristic  of  Mrs. 
Smith.  No  applause  the  world  has  for  her  poems  can  compare 
to  the  happiness  of  her  well-ordered  and  beautiful  home  ;  fame 
cannot  emulate,  nor  has  ambition  rewards  to  compare  with  the 
serene  content  of  a  life  whose  outflow  is  in  sympathy  with  the 
woes  and  sorrows  which  are  the  common  heritage." 

The  poem  entire  is  given  below.  It  contains  some 
lines  singularly  appropriate  to  Payne's  sad  and  almost 
sombre  career. 

Sometime,  when  all  life'.s  lessons  have  been  learned, 

And  sun  and  stars  forevermore  have  set, 
The  things  which  our  weak  judgments  here  have  spurned, 

The  things  o'er  which  we  grieved  with  lashes  wet, 
Will  flash  before  us,  out  of  life's  dark  night, 

As  stars  shine  most  in  deeper  tints  of  blue  ; 
And  we  shall  see  how  all  God's  plans  are  right, 

And  how  what  seemed  reproof  was  love  most  true. 

And  we  shall  see  how,  wliile  we  frown  and  sigh, 

God's  plans  go  on  as  best  for  you  and  me ; 
How,  when  we  called,  He  heeded  not  our  cry, 

Because  His  wisdom  to  the  end  could  see. 
And  even  as  wise  parents  disallow 

Too  much  of  sweet  to  craving  babyhood. 
So  God,  perhaps,  is  keeping  from  us  now 

Life's  sweetest  things,  because  it  seemeth  good. 

And  if,  sometimes,  commingled  with  life's  wine. 

We  find  the  wormwood,  and  rebel  and  shrink, 
Be  sure  a  wiser  hand  than  yours  or  mine 

Pours  out  this  potion  for  our  lips  to  drink  ; 
And  if  some  friend  we  love  is  lying  low, 

Where  human  kisses  cannot  reach  his  face, 
Oh,  do  not  blame  the  loving  Father  so. 

But  wear  your  sorrow  with  obedient  grace  1 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  545 

And  you  shall  shortly  know  that  lengthened  breath 

Is  not  the  sweetest  gift  God  sends  His  friend ; 
And  that,  sometimes,  the  sable  pall  of  death 

Conceals  the  fairest  boon  His  love  can  send. 
If  we  could  push  ajar  the  gates  of  life. 

And  stand  within  and  all  God's  workings  see, 
We  could  interpret  all  this  doubt  and  strife, 

And  for  each  mystery  could  find  a  key  ! 

But  not  to-day.     Then  be  content,  poor  heart ! 

God's  plans  like  lilies  pure  and  white  unfold. 
We  must  not  tear  the  close-shut  leaves  apart ; 

Time  will  reveal  the  calyxes  of  gold. 
And  if,  through  patient  toil,  we  reach  the  land 

Where  tired  feet,  with  sandals  loosed,  may  rest, 
When  we  shall  clearly  see  and  understand 

I  think  that  we  will  say,  "  God  knew  the  best !  " 

The  following  beautiful  lines  on  "  The  Conversion 
of  Abraham"  were  written  by  Mrs.  Helen  Jackson 
("  H.  H."),  whose  productions,  in  elegant  verse  and  in 
prose,  are  so  highly  esteemed. 

At  night,  upon  the  silent  plain, 
Knelt  Abraham  and  watched  the  sky : 
When  the  bright  evening  star  arose 
He  lifted  up  a  joyful  cry, — 
"  This  is  the  Lord  !  This  light  shall  shine 
To  mark  the  path  for  me  and  mine." 
But  suddenly  the  star's  fair  face 
Sank  down  and  left  its  darkened  place. 
Then  Abraham  cried  in  sore  dismay, 
"  The  Lord  is  not  discovered  yet,  — 
I  cannot  worship  gods  which  set." 
Then  rose  the  moon,  full  orbed  and  clear, 
And  flooded  all  the  plain  with  light. 
And  Abraham's  heart  again  with  joy 
O'erflowed  at  the  transcendent  sight. 
"This  surely  is  the  Lord,"  he  cried  ; 
"  That  other  light  was  pale  beside 
35 


546      EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

This  glorious  one."     But  like  the  star, 
The  moon  in  the  horizon  far 
Sank  low  and  vanished.     Then  again 
Said  Abraham,  "  This  cannot  be 
My  Lord :   I  am  but  lost,  astray, 
Unless  one  changeless  guidelh  me." 
Then  came,  unheralded,  the  dawn, 
Rosy  and  swift  from  east  to  west ; 
High  rode  the  great  triumphant  sun, 
And  Abraham  cried,  "  O  last  and  best 
And  sovereign  Light !  now  I  believe 
This  Lord  will  change  not,  nor  deceive." 
Each  moment  robbed  the  day's  fair  grace, — 
The  reddening  sun  went  down  apace; 
And  Abraham,  left  in  rayless  night. 
Cried,  "  O  my  people,  let  us  turn 
And  worship  now  the  God  who  rules 
These  lesser  lights,  and  makes  them  burn  ! " 

Mrs.  Margaret  J.  Preston,  of  Virginia,  one  of  the 
leading  literary  writers  of  the  South,  is  the  author  of 
these  stanzas. 

The  certainest,  surest  thing  I  know, 

Whatever,  what  else  may  yet  befall, 
Of  blessing  or  bane,  of  weal  or  woe, 

Ls  the  truth  that  is  fatefullest  far  of  all  : 

That  the  Master  will  knock  at  my  door  some  night, 
And  there,  in  the  silence  hushed  and  dim, 

Will  wait  for  my  coming  wilii  lamp  alight, 
To  open  immediately  to  Him  ! 

I  wonder  if  I  at  His  tap  shall  spring 

In  eagerness  up,  and  cross  the  floor 
With  rapturous  step,  and  freely  fling, 

In  the  murk  of  the  midnight,  wide  the  door? 


Or  shall  I  with  whitened  fear  grow  dumb 
The  moment  I  hear  the  sudden  knock. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  $47 

And,  startled  to  think  He  hath  surely  come, 
Shall  falter  and  fail  to  find  the  lock  ? 


If  this  is  the  only  thing  foretold 

Of  all  my  future,  then  I  pray 
That,  quietly  watchful,  I  may  hold 

The  key  of  a  golden  faith  each  day 

Fast  shut  in  my  grasp,  that  when  I  hear 
His  step,  be  it  dawn  or  midnight  dim. 

Straightway  may  I  rise  without  a  fear, 
And  open  immediately  to  Him  ! 

In  the  following  glowing  stanzas  by  Dr.  Robert  Hall 
Baynes,  the  English  Bishop  of  Madagascar,  we*  catch 
somewhat  the  exaltation  of  feeling  which  inspired  them. 

Calm  lay  the  city  in  its  double  sleep 

Beneath  the  paschal  moon's  cold,  silvery  light, 
That  flung  broad  sliadows  o'er  the  rugged  steep 
Of  Olivet  that  night. 

But  soon  the  calm  was  broken,  and  the  sound 

Of  strains  all  sweet  and  plaintive  filled  the  air; 
And  deep-toned  voices  echoing  all  around 
Made  music  everywhere. 

The  holy  rite  is  o'er,  —  the  blessed  sign 

Is  given  to  cheer  us  in  this  earthly  strife; 
The  brand  is  broken,  and  outpoured  the  wine, — 
Symbols  of  better  life. 

The  bitter  cup  of  wrath  before  Him  lies  ; 

And  yet  as  up  the  steep  they  pass  along, 
The  mighty  Victim  to  the  sacrifice, 

They  cheer  the  way  with  song. 

We  ne'er  can  know  such  sorrow  as  that  night 

Pierced  to  the  heart  the  suffering  Son  of  God ! 
And  every  earthly  sadness  is  but  light 
To  that  dark  path  He  trod. 


548       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

And  yet  how  faint  and  feeble  rise  our  songs  ; 

How  oft  we  linger  mid  the  shadows  dim ; 
Nor  give  the  glory  that  to  Him  belongs 
In  eucharistic  hymn. 

Oh  for  an  echo  of  that  chant  of  praise  ; 

Oh  for  a  voice  to  sing  His  mighty  love ; 
Oh  for  a  refrain  of  the  hymns  they  raise 
In  the  bright  Home  above  ! 

Touch  Thou  our  wayward  hearts,  and  let  them  be 

In  stronger  faith  to  Thy  glad  service  given, 
Till  o'er  the  margin  of  life's  surging  sea 
We  sing  the  songs  of  Heaven  ! 

Mary  L.  Dickenson,  whose  contributions  to  the  reH- 
gious  press  arc  well  known,  is  the  author  of  the  following : 

The  Easter  praises  may  falter,  and  die  with  the  Easter  day; 

The  blossoms  that  brightened   the  altar,  in   sweetness  may  fade 

away  ; 
But  after  the  silence  and  fading,  there  lingers,  untold  and  unpriced. 
Above  the  changing  and  shading,  the  love  of  the  living  Christ. 
For  the  living  Christ  is  loving,  and  the  loving  Christ  is  alive. 
His  life  hidden  in  us  is  moving  us  ever  to  pray  and  to  strive. 
Alas  !  that  e'en  in  our  striving  we  labor  like  spirits  in  prison. 
Forgetting  that  Jesus  is  living,  forgetting  the  Saviour  has  risen  ! 
We  join  in  the  Easter  rejoicing,  and  echo  each  gladdening  strain. 
While  a  pitiful  minor  is  voicing  our  own  secret  doubting  or  pain. 
We  weave  Him  a  shroud  of  our  sadness,  we  cover  His  smile  with 

our  gloom. 
And  drive  back  the  angel  of  gladness  who  waits  at  the  door  of  the 

tomb. 


'"  Christ's  sweetest  consolations  lie  behind  crosses, 
and  He  reserves  His  best  things  for  those  who  have  the 
courage  to  press  forward  fighting  for  them.  I  entreat 
you  to  turn  your  eyes  away  from  self,  from  man,  and 
look  to  Christ.     Let  me  assure  you,  as  a  fellow-traveller, 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  549 

that  I  have  been  on  the  road,  and  know  it  well,  and  that 
by  and  by  there  won't  be  such  a  dust  on  it.  You  will 
meet  with  hindrances  and  trials,  but  will  fight  quietly 
through,  and  no  human  ears  hear  the  din  of  battle,  nor 
human  eye  perceive  fainting  or  halting  or  fall.  May 
God  bless  you,  and  become  to  you  an  ever-present,  joy- 
ful reality  !     Indeed  He  will,  only  wait  patiently."  * 

These  graceful  verses,  by  Harriet  Winslow  Sewell,  are 
replete  with  poetic  beauty  and  suggestiveness :  — 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing 

For  the  far  off,  unattained,  and  dim, 
When  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying, 

Ofiers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching, 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still; 

Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are  preaching 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 

Not  by  deeds  that  gain  the  world's  applauses, 
Not  by  works  that  win  thee  world-renown. 

Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  crosses, 

Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal  crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely, 

Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give  ; 
Thou  wilt  find  by  hearty  striving,  only, 

And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live. 

"  What  a  mystery  is  this  human  life  of  ours  !  How 
little  we  know  of  each  other,  even  in  the  most  intimate 
relations !  How  often,  like  Joseph,  we  have  to  restrain 
ourselves !  Oh,  these  secret  sorrows,  these  incommuni- 
cable joys,  these  hidden  struggles,  these  inner  triumphs, 

*  Life  of  Elizabeth  Prentiss. 


550       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

—  are  they  not,  after  all,  our  true  life?  And  when  the 
painter  with  the  soul  of  the  poet,  or  the  poet  with  the 
eye  of  the  painter,  or  the  musician  with  the  sympathetic 
spirit,  expresses  for  us  the  thoughts  that  within  us 
burn,  how  gratefully  do  we  let  our  hearts  live  in  the 
picture,  the  poem,  or  the  song !  "  * 

The  familiar  hymn,  "Just  as  I  am,"  by  Charlotte 
Elliott,  has  endeared  her  name  to  all  Christians.  From 
her  heretofore  unpublished  poems  we  take  the  following 
exquisite  verses :  — 

I  want  that  adorning  divine 
Tiiou  only,  my  God,  canst  bestow ; 
I  want  in  these  beautiful  garments  to  shine, 

Which  distinguish  Thy  household  below. 

Col.  iii.  12,  17. 

I  want  every  moment  to  feel 
That  Thy  Spirit  resides  in  my  heart, 
That  His  power  is  present  to  cleanse  and  to  heal, 
And  newness  of  life  to  impart. 

Rom.  viii.  11,  i. 

I  want,  oh,  I  want  to  attain 
Some  likeness,  my  Saviour,  to  Thee  ! 
That  longed-for  resemblance  once  more  to  regain. 
Thy  comeliness  put  upon  me  ! 

I  John  iii.  2,  3. 

I  want  to  be  marked  for  Thine  own, 
Thy  seal  on  my  forehead  to  wear; 
To  receive  tliat  "  new  name  "  on  the  mystic  white  stone, 
Whicii  none  but  Thyself  can  declare. 

Rev.  ii.  17. 

'  I  want  so  in  Thee  to  abide 

As  to  bring  forth  some  fruit  to  Thy  praise  ! 
The  brancli  which  Thou  prunest,  though  feeble  and  dried. 
May  languish,  but  never  decays. 

John  XV.  2,  5. 
•  J.  Coombs. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  55  I 

I  want  Thine  own  hand  to  unbind 
Each  tie  to  terrestrial  things, 
Too  tenderly  cherished,  too  closely  entwined, 
Where  my  heart  too  tenaciously  clings. 

I  John  ii.  15. 

I  want  by  my  aspect  serene, 
My  actions  and  words,  to  declare 
That  my  treasure  is  placed  in  a  country  unseen, 
That  my  heart's  best  aifections  are  there. 

Mait.  vi.  19,  21. 

I  want,  as  a  traveller,  to  haste 
Straight  onward,  nor  pause  in  my  way  ; 
Nor  forethought  nor  anxious  contrivance  to  waste 
On  the  tent  only  pitched  for  a  day. 

Heb.  xiii.  5,  6. 

I  want —  and  this  sums  up  my  prayer  — 
To  glorify  Thee  till  I  die  ; 
Then  calmly  to  yield  up  my  soul  to  Thy  care, 
And  breathe  out  in  faith  my  last  sigh. 

Phil.  iii.  S,  9. 

The    following    beautiful  "  Creed,"    in    measure,    by 
"Marie,"  is  worthy  of  our  study:  — 

I  believe  in  God,  Creator,  Father  of  all  human  souls, — 
Not  a  monarch  watching  Nature  while  her  wondrous  plan  unfolds, 
But  the  father  of  our  spirits  and  the  moulder  of  our  frames. 
Loving  each  as  one  begotten,  calling  all  by  separate  names, — 
In  the  Creator  of  our  spirits  I  believe. 

I  believe  the  hallowed  Jesus  loved  divinely,  suffered  much. 

That  our  God  might  reach  His  children  with  a  close  and  human 

toucli ; 
Drawing  us  with  love  so  tender  up  the  pathway  where  He  trod, 
Till  we  fall  like  weeping  children  in  the  yearning  arms  of  God: 
In  our  King,  and  Priest,  and  Prophet  I  believe. 

I  believe  the  Holy  Spirit  fills  the  earth  from  shore  to  shore, 
Round  about,  above,  within  us,  bearing  witness  evermore ; 


552       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Where  the  Holy  Ghost  abideth,  if  He  tarry  but  a  night, 
Even  sordid  eyes  beholding  see  the  wondrous  love  and  light : 
In  the  Paraclete  of  promise  I  believe. 

I  believe  the  holy  angels  hover  round  us  all  the  way, 
Each  commissioned  by  the  Father,  —  clouds  of  witnesses  are  they  ; 
To  the  throne  they  bear  our  sorrows,  then  return  on  tireless  wing, 
Bringing  to  each  heart  despatches  from  the  palace  of  our  King: 
In  the  ministering  of  angels  I  believe. 

I  believe  in  life  eternal ;  trees  and  flowers  and  drops  of  rain 
Live  and  die,  and  decomposing  live  and  die  and  live  again. 
Doubting  still  what  wondrous  changes  shall  complete  the  perfect 

sphere, 
Life,  I  know,  is  greater,  grander  than  the  segment  painted  here  : 
In  the  coming  life  eternal  I  believe. 

I  believe  that  human  loving  is  a  lesson  taught  above; 
I  believe  the  cup  of  blessing  is  a  willing  cup  of  love. 
Loving  when  the  flesh  is  willing  is  the  sweetest  drop  of  bliss; 
Loving  on  through  pain  and  evil  is  diviner  still  than  this: 
In  love,  the  law  of  love  fulfilling,  I  believe. 


"  With  the  recognition  of  the  nature  and  of  the  name 
of  our  Lord,  the  riddle  of  Hfe's  sphinx  is  read.  The 
problem  of  human  hfe  finds  its  answer  in  that  great 
Mystery  of  godliness  who  was  manifested  in  the  flesh, 
and  who  henceforth  is  the  revealed  secret  of  God's 
government  of  the  world.  With  Him  for  our  Advocate, 
the  burden  of  our  hopes  and  fears,  our  mistakes  and 
our  sins,  need  trouble  us  no  more,  neither  for  this  Hfe 
nor  for  that  which  is  to  come ;  for  in  the  day  of  doom 
He  Himself  will  be  our  only  and  sufficient  Answer."  * 

Yea,  Thou  wilt  answer  for  me,  righteous  Lord  : 
Thine  all  the  merits,  mine  the  great  reward; 
Thine  the  sharp  thorns,  and  mine  the  golden  crown; 
Mine  the  life  won,  and  thine  the  life  laid  down. 
•  S.  S.  Times. 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  553^ 

Christina  Rossetti,  of  London,  is  the  writer  of  these 
stanzas :  — 

Does  the  road  wind  up  hill  all  the  way  ? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  juurney  take  the  whole  long  day  ? 

From  morn  till  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 

A  bed  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face  ? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  with  other  wayfarers  at  night  ? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call,  when  just  in  sight? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak  ? 

Of  labor  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek  ? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

"  Keep  the  altar  of  private  prayer  burning.  This  is  the 
very  hfe  of  all  piety.  The  sanctuary  and  family  altar 
borrow  their  fires  here ;  therefore  let  this  burn  well. 
Secret  devotion  is  the  very  essence,  evidence,  and  ba- 
rometer of  vital  and  experimental  religion," 


"  Prayer  is  not  conquering  God's  reluctance  ;  it  is  tak- 
ing hold  of  His  willingness.  He  is  more  willing  to  give 
than  we  are  to  ask." 

Here  is  a  little  homily  on  the  blessing  of  Work,  written 
by  Mrs.  M.  F.  Butts,  of  New  York. 

I  did  not  know  thee  once ;  thou  wert  to  me 
A  cruel  master,  setting  metes  and  bounds, 
And  hedging  me  from  the  sweet  pleasure-grounds, 

Set  thick  with  flowers,  where  I  would  fain  be  free. 


554       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

Among  the  roses  then  I  did  not  see, 

With  childish  eyes,  the  thorns  that  since  I've  found; 

I  lieard  no  discord  in  the  music's  sound, 
And  fancied  life  a  day  of  jubilee. 
Now  to  thy  gates  I  turn  for  all  my  peace. 

Shut  safely  in  with  thee,  stern,  trusty  friend, 

I  would  not  wander  till  my  days  shall  end, 
And  earthly  work  and  earthly  sorrow  cease ; 

And  when  at  last  thy  harness  I  unbind. 

Thee  in  the  spirit  home  I  hope  to  find. 

Mrs.  Sarah  Henderson  Smith,  of  Lexington,  Va.,  is 
the  author  of  the  graceful  and  suggestive  stanzas  that 
follow :  — 

"  Up  to  the  light,"  said  the  blade  of  grass; 

"The  clods  are  heavy,  and  I  must  pass 

Patiently,  gropingly,  on  my  way, 

Till  I  pierce  the  darkness  and  tind  the  day. 

What  though  an  atom  in  time  and  space, 

Even  an  atom  may  claim  its  place ; 

And,  toiling  upward,  I  fulfil 

All  that  I  know  of  my  Master's  will." 

"  Up  to  the  light,"  said  the  tiny  bird, 
As  dawn  tlie  depths  of  the  forest  stirred, 
And  a  joyful  song  rang  out  afar 
Clear  and  bright  as  the  morning  star. 
"What  though  an  atom  in  time  and  space, 
Even  an  atom  may  claim  its  place  ; 
And,  singing  heavenward,  I  fulfil 
All  that  I  know  of  my  Master's  will." 

"Up  to  the  light,"  said  the  struggling  soul; 
"The  twilight  deepens,  the  shadows  roll 
Fitfully,  fearfully  over  my  head. 
And  the  spirit  within  me  is  cold  and  dead. 
Every  atom  in  time  and  space 
Claims  for  itself  its  destined  place, 
While  I,  a  cumberer,  througli  my  days 
Faint  in  labor  and  fail  in  praise." 


RECENT    AMERICAN    AND    ENGLISH.  555 

"  How  can  we  bring  God  nearer  to  us  now,  to-day,  so  that 
we  can  feel  Him  more  and  be  impressed  more  by  Him? 
By  spiritualizing  your  conceptions  and  your  ideas  of 
Him ;  by  feeling  that  He  is  Spirit,  —  not  a  spirit,  but 
Spirit;  for  if  you  say  '  a  spirit,'  you  picture  a  body  and 
a  form  that  the  spirit  has,  just  as  when  you  say  '  a  wind ' 
you  picture  a  locality  where  it  was  blowing;  but  if  you 
say  simple  'wind,'  it  may  be  here,  it  may  be  there,  it  may 
be  everywhere,  it  may  be  all-pervading ;  so,  if  instead  of 
saying  'God  is  a  Spirit,'  you  will  say  '  God  is  Spirit/ 
you  make  Him  an  intehigent,  affectional  atmosphere  in 
the  depths  of  which  you  stand,  and  of  which  you  breathe, 
even  as  the  Bible  says,  '  In  Him  we  live,  and  move,  and 
have  our  being;  '  we  draw  being  out  of  Him,  and  we 
never,  in  all  our  movings,  walk  beyond  the  circumference 
of  Him." 

"  One  of  the  hardest  lessons  of  the  Christian  heart  is  to 
believe  in  the  unchanging  love  of  God.  I  know  He  loved 
me  long  ago,  but,  oh  !  does  He  love  me  now?  According 
to  my  grasp  on  this  love,  is  my  fulfilment  of  duty." 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  A.  Allen's  poetry  may  doubtless  be 
familiar  to  the  reader,  but  we  cannot  refrain  from  a 
brief  extract  from  one  of  her  choice  poems. 

Full  well  I  know  I  have  more  tares  than  wheat. 
Brambles  than  flowers,  dry  stalks  and  withered  leaves; 
Wherefore  I  blush  and  weep,  as  at  Thy  feet 
I  kneel  down  reverently  and  repeat, 
Master  !  behold  my  sheaves  ! 

I  know  these  blossoms,  clustering  heavily 
With  evening  dew  upon  their  folded  leaves, 
Can  claim  no  value  for  utility, 
Therefore  shall  fragrancy  and  beauty  be 
The  glory  of  my  sheaves. 


55^       EVENINGS  WITH  THE  SACRED  POETS. 

So  do  I  gather  strength  and  hope  anew, 
For  well  I  know  Thy  patient  love  perceives 
Not  what  I  did,  but  what  I  strove  to  do ; 
And  though  the  full,  ripe  ears  be  sadly  few, 
Thou  wilt  accept  my  sheaves. 

We  are  indebted  for  these  beautiful  lines  on  Peace  to 
the  facile  and  poetic  pen  of  Charles  F.  Richardson, 

If  sin  be  in  the  heart, 
The  fairest  sky  is  foul,  and  sad  the  summer  weather. 
The  eye  no  longer  sees  the  lambs  at  play  together, 
The  dull  ear  cannot  hear  the  birds  that  sing  so  sweetly. 
And  all  the  joy  of  God's  good  earth  is  gone  completely,  — 

If  sin  be  in  the  heart. 

If  peace  be  in  the  heart, 
The  wildest  winter  storm  is  full  of  solemn  beauty. 
The  midnight  lightning-flash  but  shows  the  path  of  duty, 
Each  living  creature  tells  some  new  and  joyous  story, 
The  very  trees  and  stones  all  catch  a  ray  of  glory,  — 

If  peace  be  in  the  heart. 

Our  tenure  upon  things  terrestrial  is  but  temporary, 
but  our  spiritual  interests  are  not  to  cease  with  earthly 
conditions,  —  they  reach  to  the  great  Hereafter. 

Gold  will  leave  us  at  the  grave. 

But  the  wealth  of  the  mind 
Unto  the  heavens  with  us  we  have. 

Here  our  desultory  gossip  as  well  as  our  selections 
ought,  and  would  terminate,  were  it  not  for  the  silent 
yet  eloquent  claim  of  sundry  sweet  waifs  of  beauty, 
whose  appeal  is  irresistible.  In  our  extended  pleas- 
ure-excursions among  the  various  flower-gardens  of 
sacred  poesy,  we  have  met  with  many  an  unacknowl- 
edged, modest,  wayside  blossom,  seemingly  all  too 
coy  to  court  the  society  of  the  rich  parterre.  Some 
of  these  w^e  have  culled,  and  now  group  together. 
They  are  gossamer-like,  fragile,  but  very  fair,  many- 


MODERN   ENGLISH   AND   AMERICAN. 


557 


colored,  of  delicate  hue,  and  of  dainty  perfume ;  and 
will,  we  think,  form  a  fitting  and  fragrant  bouquet 
of  memory,  with  which  to  close  our  Collectanea. 

Yet,  O  Time  !  attend  my  prayer, 
Though  thy  cold  hand  blight  my  hair, 
Touch  me  softly,  —  spare,  oh,  spare 

Life's  best  beauty,  love  and  truth  : 
Let  the  withering  control 
Of  thy  years,  as  on  they  roll. 
Spare  the  freshness  of  my  soul,  — 

Spare  the  fervor  of  my  youth  ! 


'Tis  not  the  number  of  the  lines  on  life's  fast  filling  page, 
'Tis  not  the  pulse's  added  throbs,  which  constitute  their  age. 
Some  souls  are  serfs  among  the  free,  while  others  nobly  thrive ; 
They  stand  just  where  their  fathers  stood,  —  dead,  even  while  they 

live  ! 
Others,  all  spirit,  heart,  and  sense  ;  theirs  the  mysterious  power, 
To  live,  in  thrills  of  joy  or  woe,  a  twelvemonth  in  an  hour  ! 
Seize,  then,  the  minutes  as  they  pass  :  the  woof  of  life  is  thought, 
Warm  up  the  colors,  let  them  glow,  by  fire  or  fancy  fraught. 
Live  to  some  purpose  ;  make  thy  life  a  gift  of  use  to  thee  ! 
A  joy,  a  good,  a  golden  hope,  a  heavenly  argosy  ! 


Up  above,  the  thoughts  that  know  not  anguish. 
Tender  care,  sweet  love  for  us  below. 

Noble  pity,  free  from  anxious  terror, 
Larger  love,  without  a  touch  of  woe. 

Down  below,  a  sad,  mysterious  music 
Wailing  through  the  woods  and  on  the  shore. 

Burdened  with  a  grand,  majestic  secret 
That  keeps  sweeping  from  us  evermore. 

Up  above,  a  music  that  entwineth 
With  eternal  threads  of  golden  sound 

The  great  poem  of  this  strange  existence. 

All  whose  wondrous  meaning  hath  been  found. 


558  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Down  below,  the  church,  to  whose  poor  window 
Glory  by  the  autumnal  trees  is  lent. 

And  a  knot  of  worshippers  in  mourning, 
Missing  some  one  at  the  sacrament. 

Up  above,  the  burst  of  Hallelujah, 
And  (without  the  sacramental  mist 

Wrapped  around  us  like  a  sunlit  halo) 
The  <rreat  vision  of  the  face  of  Christ ! 


Oh,  rapture  too  seraphic  !  Oh,  bliss  beyond  compare  ! 

When  our  Saviour  and  His  chosen  ones  break  through  the  glowing 

air, 
When    the   groans   of  marred  creation  are  changed   for  songs  of 

praise, 
And  earth  and  heaven,  in  concert  sweet,  their  loud  hosannas  raise  ! 


Full  of  vows  and  full  of  labor. 
All  our  days  fresh  duties  bring  ; 

First  to  God,  and  then  our  neighbor, 
Christian  life  is  an  earnest  thing. 

Onward,  ever  onward  pressing, 
Yet  untried  as  angel's  wing, 

Believing,  doing,  blest  and  blessing. 
Christian  life  is  an  earnest  thing. 


Thank  God,  for  other  feet  that  be  by  ours  in  life's  wayfaring  ; 
For  blessed  Christian  charity,  believing,  when  she  cannot  see. 
Suffering  her  friends'  infirmity,  enduring  and  forbearing. 


Yes,  I  need  thee,  heavenly  city,  my  low  spirit  to  upbear ; 

Yes,  I  need  thee,  earth's  enchantments  so  beguile  me  with  their 

glare : 
Let  me  see  thee  then  these  fetters  break  asunder,  I  am  free. 
Then  this  pomp  no  longer  chains  me,  faith  hath  won  the  victory ! 
Heir  of  glory  !  that  shall  be  for  thee  and  me  ! 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  559 

Soon  where  earthly  beauty  blinds  not,  no  excess  of  brilliance  palls, 

Salem  !  city  of  the  holy!  we  shall  be  within  thy  walls, 

There  beside  yon  crystal  river,  there,  beneath   life's  wondrous 

tree,  — 
There,  with  nought  to  cloud  or  sever,  ever  with  the  Lamb  to  be ! 
Heir  of  glory !  that  shall  be  for  thee  and  me  ! 


Pilgrim  of  earth  !  who  art  journeying  to  heaven, 
Heir  of  eternal  life,  child  of  the  day! 

Cared  for,  watched  over,  beloved  and  forgiven, — 
Art  thou  discouraged  because  of  the  way  ? 

Be  trustful,  be  steadfast,  whatever  betide  thee, 
Only  one  thing  do  thou  ask  of  the  Lord, — 

Grace  to  go  forward  wherever  He  guide  thee, 
Simply  believing  the  truth  of  His  word. 

Still  on  thy  spirit  deep  anguish  is  pressing. 
Not  for  the  yoke  that  His  wisdom  bestows  ; 

A  heavier  burden  thy  soul  is  distressing, 
A  heart  that  is  slow  in  His  love  to  repose. 

Earthliness,  coldness,  unthankful  behavior,  — 
Ah,  thou  mayst  sorrow,  but  do  not  despair ; 

Even  this  grief  thou  mayst  bring  to  thy  Saviour, 
Cast  upon  Him  e'en  this  burden  and  care. 

Bring  all  thy  hardness.  His  power  can  subdue  it : 
How  full  is  the  promise  !  the  blessing  how  free  ! 

*'  Whatsoever  ye  ask  in  My  name,  I  will  do  it ;  " 
"  Abide  in  My  love,  and  be  joyful  in  Me  !  " 


Be  prayerful ;  ask,  and  thou  shalt  have  strength  equal  to  thy  day ; 
Prayer  clasps  the  Hand  that  guides  the  world,  —  oh,  make  it  then 
thy  stay ; 

Ask  largely,  and  thy  God  will  be 
A  kingly  giver  unto  thee. 


Not  fWiU,  my  child, —  a  little  more  rough  tossing, 
A  little  longer  on  the  billows'  foam  ; 

A  few  more  journeyings  in  the  desert-darkness. 
And  i/ien  the  sunshine  of  thy  Father's  home  ! 


560  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Not  now,  —  for  I  have  wand'rers  in  the  distance, 
And  thou  must  call  them  in  with  patient  love  ; 

Not  now,  —  for  1  have  sheep  upon  the  mountains, 
And  thou  must  follow  them  where'er  they  rove. 

Not  tWiV,  —  for  I  have  loved  ones  sad  and  weary ; 

Wilt  thou  not  clieer  them  with  a  kindly  smile  ? 
Sick  ones,  who  need  thee  in  their  lonely  sorrow  ; 

Wilt  thou  not  tend  them  yet  a  little  while  ? 

Not  7tow,  —  for  wounded  hearts  are  sorely  bleeding, 
And  thou  must  teach  those  widowed  hearts  to  sing ; 

Not  now,  —  for  orphans'  tears  are  thickly  falling  ; 
They  must  be  gathered  'neath  some  sheltering  wing. 

Go  with  the  name  of  Jesus  to  the  dying, 

And  speak  that  name  in  all  its  living  power  ; 
Why  should  thy  fainting  heart  grow  chill  and  weary? 

Canst  thou  not  watch  with  me  one  little  hour  ? 
One  little  hour  !  and  then  the  glorious  crowning, 

The  golden  harp-strings,  and  the  victor's  palm  ; 
One  little  hour  !  and  then  the  Hallelujah  ! 

Eternity's  long,  deep  thanksgiving  psalm  ! 


Life's  youngest  tides,  joy-brimming,  flow 

For  him  who  lives  above  all  years. 
Who  all-immortal  makes  the  now. 

And  is  not  taken  in  Times's  arrears  : 
His  life's  a  hymn  the  seraphim 

Might  hark  to  hear  or  help  to  sing: 
And  to  his  soul  the  boundless  whole 

Its  bounty  all  doth  daily  bring. 


O  Thou  true  Life  of  all  that  live. 

Who  dost,  unmoved,  all  motion  bway. 
Who  dost  the  morn  and  evening  give, 

And  through  its  changes  guide  the  day  ! 
Thy  light  upon  our  evening  pour, 

So  may  our  souls  no  sunset  see, 
But  death  to  us  an  open  door 

To  an  eternal  morning  be  ! 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN. 


561 


"  Why  weepest  thou  ?  whom  seekest  thou  ?    the  living  with  the 

dead?" 
Take  young  spring-flowers  and  deck  thy  brow,  for  life  with  joy  is 
wed: 

The  grave  is  now  the  grave  no  more  ! 
Why  fear  to  pass  that  bridal-chamber  door  ? 


I  look  to  Thee  in  every  need,  and  never  look  in  vain  ; 
I  feel  thy  strong  and  tender  love,  and  all  is  well  again : 

The  thought  of  Thee  is  mightier  far 

Than  sin  and  pain  and  sorrow  are. 

Discouraged  in  the  work  of  life,  disheartened  by  its  load, 
Shamed  by  its  failures  or  its  fears,  I  sink  beside  the  road  : 

But  let  me  only  think  of  Thee, 

And  then  new  heart  springs  up  in  me. 

Thy  calmness  bends  serene  above,  my  restlessness  to  still ; 
Around  me  flows  Thy  quickening  life,  to  nerve  my  faltering  will : 

Thy  presence  fills  my  solitude  ; 

Thy  providence  turns  all  to  good. 


Have  you  never  felt  the  pleasure  of  forgiving  fraud  or  wrong, 
Rippling  through  your  soul  like  measure  sweet  of  sweetest  poet'.s 

song  ? 
Have  you  never  felt  that  beauty  lies  in  pain  for  others  borne  ? 
That  the  sacredness  of  duty  bids  you  offer  love  for  scorn  ? 
'Tis  the  Christian,  not  the  Stoic,  that  best  triumphs  over  pain. 


From  lips  divine,  like  healing  balm  to  hearts  oppressed  and  torn, 
The  heavenly  consolation  fell,  "  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn." 
Unto  the  hopes  by  sorrow  crushed  a  noble  faith  succeeds  ; 
And  life,  by  trials  furrowed,  bears  the  fruit  of  loving  deeds, 
How  rich,  how  sweet,  how  full  of  strength,  our  human  spirits  are. 
Baptized  into  the  sanctities  of  suffering  and  of  prayer  ! 


The  flowers  live  by  the  tears  that  fall  from  the  sad  face  of  the  skies, 
And  life  would  have  no  joys  at  all,  were  there  no  watery  eyes. 
Love  thou  thy  sorrow,  grief  shall  bring  its  own  excuse  in  after 

years. 
The  rainbow  !  — see  how  fair  a  thing  God  hath  built  up  from  tears. 
36 


562  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

Give  words,  kind  words,  to  those  who  err: 

Remorse  much  needs  a  comforter. 

Though  in  temptation's  wiles  they  fall, 

Condemn  not :  we  are  sinners  all. 

With  the  sweet  charity  of  speech, 

Give  words  that  heal,  and  words  that  teach. 


When  we  cannot  see  our  way, 
Let  us  trust,  and  still  obey : 
He  who  bids  us  forward  go 
Will  not  fail  the  way  to  show. 


Rest,  weary  soul  ! 
The  penalty  is  borne,  the  ransom  paid, 
For  all  thy  sins  full  satisfaction  made  ; 
Strive  not  to  do  thyself  what  Christ  has  done. 
Claim  the  free  gift,  and  make  the  joy  thine  own 
No  more  by  pangs  of  guilt  and  fear  distrest, 

Rest,  sweetly  rest ! 


A  solemn  murmur  in  the  soul  tells  of  the  world  to  be, 

As  travellers  hear  the  billows  roll,  before  they  reach  the  sea. 


Beyond  these  chilling  winds  and  gloomy  skies,  beyond  Death's 
gloomy  portal. 

There  is  a  land  where  beauty  never  dies,  and  love  becomes  immor- 
tal. 

The  city's  shining  towers  we  may  not  see,  with  our  dim,  earthly 
vision  ; 

For  Death,  the  silent  warder,  keeps  the  key  that  opes  those  gates 
elysian  ; 

But  sometimes,  when  adown  the  western  sky  the  fiery  sunset  lin- 
gers. 

Its  golden  gates  swing  inv/ard  noiselessly,  unlocked  by  unseen  fin- 
gers ; 

And  while  they  stand  a  moment  half-ajar,  gleams  from  the  inner 
glory 

Stream  brightly  through  the  azure  vault  afar,  and  half  reveal  the 
story. 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  563 

O  land  unknown  !  O  land  of  love  divine !  Father  all-wise,  eternal, 
Guide,  guide  these  wandering,  way-worn  feet  of  mine  into  those  pas- 
tures vernal ! 

See  the  rivers  flowing  downward  to  the  sea, 
Pouring  all  their  treasures  bountiful  and  free  ; 
Yet,  to  help  their  giving,  hidden  springs  arise  ; 
Or,  if  need  be,  showers  feed  them  from  the  skies. 
Watch  the  princely  flowers  their  rich  fragrance  spread, 
Load  the  air  with  perfumes,  from  their  beauty  shed  ; 
Yet  their  lavish  spending  leaves  them  not  in  dearth, 
With  fresh  life  replenished  from  their  mother  earth. 
Give  thy  heart's  best  treasures  :  from  fair  nature  learn ; 
Give  thy  love,  and  ask  not,  v/ait  not  a  return. 
And  the  more  thou  spendest  from  thy  little  store, 
With  a  double  bounty  God  will  give  thee  more. 


Voices  so  many  haunt  me  on  my  road, 
Oh,  tell  me.  Angel,  which  the  voice  of  God  ? 
"'Tis  that  which  most  relieves  thee  of  thy  load." 

Yet  to  me.  Angel,  oft  it  doth  appear 

As  if  His  voice  were  terrible  to  hear. 

"  That  is  thy  own  defect,  and  sin-born  fear." 

And  oft  about  me  is  a  voice  at  eve. 
That  tells  me  that  for  ever  I  shall  grieve. 
"  That  He  hath  such  a  voice,  do  not  believe." 

Yet  sometimes,  too,  at  eve,  ill  voices  die. 

And  comes  a  whisper  of  tranquillity. 

*'  His  voice  is  speaking  in  that  evening  sigh." 

And  sometimes  round  me  sweetest  murmurs  ring, 

"  There  is  a  happy  end  for  every  thing." 

"  That  is  heaven's  chorus,  earthward  echoing."  * 


Why  shouldst  thou  fear  the  beautiful  angel.  Death, 
Who  waits  thee  at  the  portals  of  the  skies. 
Ready  to  kiss  away  thy  struggHng  breath, 
Ready  with  gentle  hand  to  close  thine  eyes  ? 


•  Household  Words. 


564  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

How  many  a  tranquil  soul  has  passed  away, 
Fled  gladly  from  fierce  pain  and  pleasures  dim, 
To  the  eternal  splendors  of  the  Day  ! 
And  many  a  troubled  heart  still  calls  for  him. 


I  am  weary,  my  Saviour,  of  grieving  Thy  love  : 

Oh,  when  shall  I  rest  in  Thy  pleasure  above  ? 

I  am  weary ;  but  oh,  let  me  never  repine 

While  Thy  word  and  Thy  love  and  Thy  promise  are  mine. 


How  easy  it  is  to  keep  sin-free, 
How  hard  thy  freedom  to  recall ! 
For  'tis  the  heavenly  doom  that  we 
Forget  the  heavens  from  which  we  fall. 
What  holy  lives  we  all  should  live. 
Might  we  remember  joy  and  pain  : 
Alas,  that  memory,  like  a  sieve, 
Should  hold  the  chaff  and  drop  the  grain ! 


Words  are  mighty,  words  are  living,  —  serpents  with  their  venomed 

stings. 
Or  bright  angels,  crowding  round  us,  with  heaven's  light  upon  their 

wings  : 
Every  word  has  its  own  spirit,  true  or  false,  that  never  dies  ; 
Every  word  man's  lips  have  uttered  lives  on  record  in  the  skies. 


I  slept,  and  dreamed  that  life  was  beauty ; 
I  woke,  and  found  that  life  was  duty. 
Was  my  dream,  then,  a  shadowy  lie  ? 
Toil  on,  sad  heart,  courageously ; 
And  thou  shalt  find  thy  dream  shall  be 
A  noon-day  light  and  truth  to  thee. 


Call  them  not  dead,  —  the  faithful,  whom 
Green  earth  closed  lately  o'er, 

Nor  search  within  the  silent  tomb 
For  those  who  "  die  no  more." 

The  cold  earth  hides  them  from  our  love, 

But  not  from  His,  who  pleads  above. 


MODERN    ENGLISH   AND   AMERICAN.  565 

We  saw  the  momentary  cloud, 

The  pale  eclipse  of  mind, 
From  earthly  sight,  that  came  to  shroud 

The  deathless  ray  behind  ; 
A  moment  more,  the  shade  is  gone,  — 
The  sun,  the  spirit,  burneth  on. 

To  die  :  'tis  but  to  pass,  all  free, 

From  death's  dominion  here. 
To  burst  the  bonds  of  earth,  and  flee 

From  every  mortal  fear  ; 
To  plunge  within  that  gulf  untried. 
And  stand  beyond  it,  glorified. 

Having  thus  completed  our  swift  survey  of  the  broad 
domain  of  sacred  song,  we  now,  gentle  reader,  offer 
a  valedictory  word  at  parting ;  and  a  kindly  word  it 
should  be,  inspired  by  the  goodly  company  we  have 
been  sharing  during  this  series  of  pleasant  evenings. 
Very  delicious  have  been  these  manifold  melodies  of 
Christian  faith  and  hope,  coming  to  us  athwart  the 
centuries.  Our  ears  have  been  feasted  with  their  con- 
cord of  sweet  sounds  ;  and  our  hearts,  —  have  they  not 
been  stirred,  and  oft-times  thrilled,  with  sympathetic 
emotion?  Have  we  not  felt  our  souls  so  refreshed  and 
quickened  by  their  celestial  ministrations,  — their 
gushes  of  holy  song, —  as  to  desire  not  only  to  enshrine 
their  memory  in  our  inmost  hearts,  but  also  —  catch- 
ing the  sweet  infection  of  their  tuneful  experience  — 
to  render  our  own  a  perpetual  hymn  of  praise  ?  To  be 
in  sympathetic  harmony  with  these  heaven-taught  sing- 
ers, we,  too,  should  seek  to  rehearse  the  story  of  the 
Cross,  in  like  persuasive  eloquence  of  lip  and  life,  that 
others,  nay,  that  all,  may  become  participants  of  "the 
unspeakable  Gift."  Then  may  we  hope  that  the  great 
matin-hymn  of  Christianity,  ever  fresh  as  from  the  lips 


566  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

of  angels  on  the  plain  of  Bethlehem,  shall  be  echoed 
from  every  clime  of  earth,  and  ascend  in  one  grand 
choral  chant,  as  incense  to  the  sanctuary  of  Heaven. 

"There  angels  fold,  in  love,  their  snowy  wings, 
There  sainted  lips  chant  in  celestial  measure. 

And  spirit-fingers  stray  o'er  heaven-wrought  strings  ; 
There  loving  eyes  are  to  the  portals  straying, 

There  arms  extend,  a  wanderer  to  enfold  ; 
There  waits  a  dear,  a  holier  One,  arraying 

His  own  in  spotless  robes  and  crowns  of  gold." 

But  the  rich  Christian  melodies  which  have  been  so 
long  regaling  our  listening  ear  are  now  to  cease  ;  and 
in  parting  with  the  sweet  companionship  of  these  gifted 
sons  of  song,  we  linger  fondly  to  catch  the  last  echoing 
cadences  of  their  delicious  numbers ;  as  we  are  wont 
to  do  over  the  farewell  syllables  of  cherished  friends. 
For  have  we  not  been  privileged  to  share  alike  in  their 
ecstatic  raptures  and  their  sorrowing  refrains,  their 
beautiful  lessons  of  wisdom  and  their  soul-exulting 
prophecies?  Many-hued  have  been  their  bright  crea- 
tions, and  many-voiced  their  melodious  utterances  ;  but 
the  burden  of  their  song  is  interpenetrated  by  one  and 
the  same  great  theme, — the  Cross  of  Calvary,  and  the 
spiritual  warfare  which  it  inspires  in  every  true  human 
soul.  This  great  central  fact  of  our  Christian  faith  has 
been,  throughout  the  procession  of  the  centuries,  the 
grand  altar-shrine  around  which  the  priesthood  of 
sacred  song  have  ever  rendered  the  homage  of  their 
votive  offerings.  As  we  have  seen,  in  the  earliest 
ages,  the  Hebrews  chanted,  in  solemn  numbers,  their 
anthems  of  adoration,  by  the  inspired  lips  of  their 
prophet-bards ;  and  in  the  apostolic  Church  the  same 
sublime  chorus  was  taken  up  in  the  language  of  the 


MODERN    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.  567 

polished  Greek ;  while  it  was  again  re-echoed  in  the 
majestic  cadences  of  the  Latin,  with  some  variations, 
throughout  the  lapse  of  the  mediaeval  ages,  down  to 
the  glorious  epoch  of  the  Reformation,  when  it  found 
heroic  utterance  in  the  German  :  and  lastly,  in  the  rich 
combinations  of  our  own  glorious  vernacular.  Nor 
will  the  theme,  so  august  and  sublime,  ever  become 
trite,  or  lose  aught  of  its  soul-quickening  energy,  either 
with  poet  or  peasant,  so  long  as  time  shall  last,  or  hu- 
man hearts  shall  continue  to  be  saddened  by  the  sins 
and  sorrows  of  earth,  or  soothed  and  solaced  by  the 
entrancing  visions  of  the  rapturous  and  saintly  joys  of 
Heaven.  For  never  should  it  be  forgotten,  that,  among 
the  royalties  and  beatitudes  of  that  world  of  light  and 
life,  evermore  the  voice  of  holy  psalm  and  glad  hosan- 
na  thrills  the  happy  spirits  of  its  redeemed  and  rejoicing 
multitudes,  with  an  ecstasy  of  bliss  altogether  unknown 
to  the  denizens  of  this  shadowy,  sin-smitten  world  of 
ours.  Would  we,  then,  aspire  to  the  true  nobility  of 
Christian  life,  —  while  we  cherish  chiefly  the  rich  treas- 
ury of  Divine  Truth  enshrined  in  the  sacred  Oracles, — 
let  us  not  hold  in  small  esteem  their  spiritual  teachings, 
conveyed  to  us  by  these  beautiful  translations  into  song. 

"  God  sent  His  singers  upon  earth, 
With  songs  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 
That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  bring  them  back  to  heaven  again." 

Then,  even  as  a  wayside  sacrament  will  these  per- 
suasive measures  prove  to  us,  along  our  pilgrim-path, 
—  brightening  and  beautifying  our  dark  and  shady 
places,  —  and,  as  by  a  divine  alchemy,  transmuting 
our  bitterest  sorrows  into  serenest  jo3^s.  Let  memory 
be  but  true  to  her  trust,  and,  among  the  choicest  of 


568  EVENINGS    WITH    THE    SACRED    POETS. 

her  spoils,  as  a  celestial  benison,  will  be  the  precious 
legacy  thus  bequeathed  to  us  by  the  gifted  and  the 
good,  —  the  priesthood  of  holy  song.  Like  some 
saintly  evangel  will  these  sweet  lyrics  oft-times  prove 
their  potency,  by  urging  our  dull  souls,  full  panoplied 
for  the  warfare,  —  with  sandal-shoon  and  pilgrim-stafF, 
—  onward  and  upward  in  the  divine  life;  until  the  end 
Cometh,  and  we  are  privileged  to  exchange  the  dis- 
cordant accompaniments  of  earth  for  the  rapturous 
harmonies  of  heaven,  where  — 

"  No  groans  shall  mingle  with  the  songs 
Which  warble  from  immortal  tonsrues." 


INDEX   OF   NAMES. 


PAGE 

Abney,  Sir  T 2S4 

Abrahall,  J.  H 477 

Adam  o£  St.  Victor 58 

Adams,  Mrs.  S.  F 473 

Addison,  J 281 

Adolphus,  Gustavus    .     .     .    121,  125,  181 

Akerman,  Mrs.  C 493 

Albert,  Prince 172 

Aldana,  F.  de 206 

Alexander,  Rev.  W 467 

Allen,  Mrs.  E.  A 555 

.  Rev.  J 493 

Allston,  W 382 

Ambrosian  hymnology      .     .     .     .     32,  36 
Anatolius  of  Constantinople.     ...      27 

Andrew  of  Crete 27 

Angelo,  Michel 200 

Anonymous  502,  505,515,  528,  542,  557-565 

Anselm  of  Lucca 63 

Apocalypse,  the 20 

Arndt,  F.  M 156 

,  Frederick 134 

Arnold,  G 13O)  i35 

Atterbury,  Bishop 293 

Augsburg  Confession 123 

Augustine,  St 33,  291 

Bacon,  Lord 225 

Baird,  Rev.  C.  W 459 

Barbauld,  Mrs 353 

Barr,  L.  E 496 

Barrow,  Dr.  1 338 

Barton,  Bernard 421 

Baxter,  Rev.  R 275 

Baynes,  Dr.  R.  H 547 

Beattie,  J 347 

Bade,  the  "  Venerable" 49 

Beecher,  Rev.  H.  W 14,  18,  272 


PAGE 

Beddome,  B 326 

Bernard  of  Clairvaux 51 

of  Cluny 55 

Berridge,  J 336 

Bethune,  Rev.  G.  W 412 

Bickersteth,  Rev.  E.  H 453 

Bilby,  T 496 

Blacklock,  Rev.  T 349,  497 

Blair,  R 289 

Blake,  W 358 

Boehler,  P 322 

Bogatzky,  C.  H 158 

Bohemia,  Eliz.,  queen  of 211 

Bonar,  Rev.  H 426,  499 

Bonnar,  Rev.  J 339 

Borthvvick,  J 494 

Bossuet,  Rev.  J.  B 196 

Bowring,  SirJ 203,422 

Boyse,  J 304 

Brady  and  Tate 275 

Bremer,  Frederika 389 

Breithaupt,  J.' 132 

Brewer,  J 375 

Bronte,  Charlotte 434 

Brooks,  Dr.  C.  T 524 

Browne,  Mrs.  PhcEbe 441 

,  Sir  T 264 

Browning,  Mrs.  E.  B 32,  414 

,  S •  G 525 

Bruce,  M 491 

Bryant,  W.  C 45S 

Bunyan,  J 277 

Burder,  Rev.  G 498 

Burnett,  Bishop 34o 

Burns,  Rev.  J.  D 487 

,  Robert «...  360 

Burton,  Rev.  J.  .          489 

Butts,  Mrs.  M.  F SS3 


570 


INDEX    OF    NAMES. 


PAGE 

Byrom,  J 294 

Byron,  Lord 395 

Calvin,  J -.188 

Cambridge,  A 486 

Campbell,  T 289,  363 

Canada,  mission  to 191 

Canitz,  Baron  von 131 

Canterbury  Hymnal 534 

Captives  to  the  Indians 357 

Carlyle  on  Luther 92 

Cary,  Alice 462 

,  Phoebe 463 

Catholic  League,  the 122 

Cennick,  J 326 

Chalmers,  T 348 

Charles,  Mrs 425 

Christianity 184 

Clarke,  Dr.  D 536 

,  Rev.  J.  F 463 

,  Willis  G 50S 

Clement  of  Alexandria 21 

Codner,  E 485 

Coleridge,  Hartley 377 

,  S.  T 99,  376 

Collier,  A 258 

Colonna,  V 201 

Congregational  singing 274 

Cook,  Rev.  R.  S 47'; 

Coolidge,  Susan  (Miss  Woolsey)  .     .  53c^ 

Coombs,  J 550 

Cooper,  G 464 

Cosmas 27 

Council  of  Constance 87 

of  Trent 84 

Cowper,  W 34«.  346 

Coxe,  Bishop  A.  C 449 

Crabbe,  Rev.  G 35^ 

Craig,  Isabella 429 

Craik,  Mrs 423 

Crashaw,  R 250 

Crewdson,  Jane 433 

Cross,  idolatry  of  the 49 

Crosswell,  Rev.  W 411 

Cunningham,  Allan 406 

Curry,  Otway 4*^5 

Dach,  Simon 128,  150,  179 

Damascenu*  J 29 

Damiani,  Cardinal 62 

Dante  Alighieri 199 


PACE 

D'Aubign^,  Merle 85,  188 

David's  Psalms 13 

Davies,  S 327 

Davis,  J 231 

.  T 448 

Day,  Stephen 309 

Do  Costa,  Rev.  Dr.  B.  F S'o 

Denny,  Sir  E 469 

De  Pontes,  Madame 153 

Derzhavin,  G.  R 206 

De  Vere,  Sir  Aubrey    ....      viii,  538 

De  Wette 137 

Dickenson,  Mary  L 548 

Dies  Irje 68,  70 

Vitae 72 

Diet  of  Spires,  the 91 

Doane,  Bishop  G.  VV 409 

Doddridge,  Rev.  P.      .     .     .     297-302.  498 

Donne,  Dr.  John 14,  230 

Dorr,  Julia  C.  R 529 

Doudney,  Sarah 532 

Dryden,  J 265 

Drummond,  H 190,  233 

Dwight,  Rev.  Dr 356 

Duffield,  Rev.  G 439 

,  Rev.  Dr.  S.  W 62 

Duncan,  M.  L 488 

Early  English  hymns 219 

Eastburn.  Rev.  J.  W 488 

Eckley,  Sophia  M 503 

Edmeston,  J 49S 

Essay  on  Man 292 

Elizabeth,  Queen  of  Bohemia   .    .     .  211 

Elliott,  Charlotte 474,  55° 

Ephrsm  Syrus 23 

Evans,  Rev.  J 493 

Faber,  Rev.  F.  W 442 

Fawcett,  J 484 

Feltham,  Owen 419 

Fenelon,  Archbishop 196 

Flatman,  T 290 

Fleming,  Mrs.  L.  R 533 

,  Paul 133 

Fletcher,  Giles 227 

Foolish  Dick 313 

Ford,  C.  L 446 

Fortunatus,  V 47 

Francke,  A.  H 150 

Franzin,  Bishop i8a 


INDEX    OF    NAMES. 


571 


PAGE 

Fuller,  H.  N 536 

,  Thomas 227,  28S 

Gaussen,  M 19,  190 

Gellert,  C.  F 154 

Geneva,  city  of 1S7,  18S 

Gerhardt,  P 141,  146 

German  Hymn-book 140 

Germany,  Protestant  feuds    .     .     .118,123 

,  Reformation  in 87 

Gerson,  J 65 

Gervinus  on  Luther 92 

Gilfillan,  Rev.  R 11 

Gill,  Rev.  W 272 

Gladden,  Rev.  W 535 

Gleim,  J.  W.  L 152 

Gloria  in  excelsis 23 

Goethe,  J.  W.  von 166 

Goveh,  Ellen  L 526 

Graham,  J 361 

Grant,  Sir  R 390 

Gray,  D 406 

Gray's  Elegy 305 

Greeley,  Horace 17 

Green,  T 349 

Greenland,  mission  to iSo 

Gregorian  Chant,  the 45 

Gregory  of  Nazianzum 25 

Grigg,  Rev.  J 490 

Gustavus  Adolphus      .     .     .    121,  125,  iSi 

Gutig,  J 178 

Guyon,  Madame 1S7,  191 

Hahakkuk,  book  of 13 

Habington,  W 253 

Haldane,  R 188 

Hall,  Rev.  Dr.  J 5=4 

.  Rev.  R 33,  349,  537 

Hamilton,  Rev.  J 19,  299 

Hammond,  W 490 

Handel's  Tunes 322 

Hart,  J 296 

Hastings,  T 499 

Havergal,  F.  R 492 

Hayne,  Paul  H 529 

Heber,  Bishop 388 

Hebrew  Lyrics 12 

Heermann,  J 129 

Hemans,  Mrs.  F 411 

Henrietta,  Princess  L 108 

Hensser-Schweizer,  Mrs.  M.     .     .     .  16S 


PAGE 

Herbert,  George 240 

Hermann,  N 108 

Hermannus  Contractus 61 

Herrick,  R 236 

Heylyn,  P 232 

Hilary,  St.,  of  Aries 35 

Hildebert  of  Tours 64 

Hihen,  J 87 

Hofel,  J Ill 

Holland 185 

Holmes,  O.  W 477 

Hood,  T 402 

Hope,  H 433 

Hopkins,  Ellice 540 

Houghton,  Lord 419 

Howard,  Mrs.  Anna  H 515 

Ho  wells,  W.  D 508 

Howitt,  Mary 430 

,  William 431 

Hull,  A.  M 48s 

Huntingdon,  Lady 334 

Huss,  J 87,  100 

Hymnology  of  Europe 197 

Hymns,  English 272 

,  their  influence      ....  126,  357 

Immortality,  conscious      ....  445 

Independent,  N.  Y 506 

Indulgences 85 

Irving,  Rev.  Edward 14 

Isaiah,  extract  from 13 

Jackson,  Mrs.  Helen 545 

Jeffrey,  Lord 404 

Jerusalem,  my  happy  home  ....  76 

Johnson,  Mrs.  H 533 

Jones,  E 488 

Joseph,  St.,  of  the  Studium  .     ...  2S 

Jude,  extract  from 19 

Judson,  Rev.  A 392 

Kamphuvzen,  D.  R 18;,  203 

Keble,  J v,  252,  399 

Keith,  G 499 

Kelly,  T 489 

Ken,  Bishop 280 

Kennedy,  B.  H 429 

Kbernvimij,  M 210 

Kimball,  Harriet  McEwen  ....  507 

King,  Bishop  H 237 


572 


INDEX    OF    NAMES. 


PAGE 

Kingsley,  Rev.  C 417 

Kirk,  Eleanor 5^7 

Klopstock,  F.  T 166 

Knox,  VV 404 

Korner,  C.  T 164 

Krishna  Pal 349.  495 

Langbecker 1:1 

Lange,  P 137 

Lindemann,  J 139 

List,  H.  W 4>7 

Lomonossov,  M.  V 210 

London  Cliristian 532 

Longfellow,  H.  W 278,451 

Lope  de  Vega 204 

Louis,  Emperor i85 

Lowell,  J.  R 450.  4'-2 

,  Mrs 450 

Lowenstern,  M.  A-  von 135 

Lucas,  Archbishop 102 

Luke,  Mrs.  J 447 

Luther,  M 83,  92,  98,  104,  io5 

Liitzen,  battle  of 124,  126 

Lyte,  Rev.  H.  F 471 

Lyttleton,  Lord  (i^^  Steele)  .     ...     375 

Macdonald,  Rev.  G.      .    .    236,  247,  255 

Macduff,  Rev.  Dr 446 

Mackay,  Mrs 4^7 

Maclay,  \V.  B 49' 

Maerlant,  J.  van 1S7 

Mahan,  Rev.  Dr 20 

Malan,  Rev.  C 190,  193 

Malt,  sermon  on 337 

Manning,  Dr 537 

Manrique,  Don  J 204 

Maria,  Queen  of  Hungary    ....  214 

"Marie" 551 

Marot,  Clement 195 

Marpurger 15S 

Marvell,  A 264 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots 193 

Mason,  Rev.  Dr 190,  276 

Massey,  Gerald 461 

McCheyne,  Rev.  Mr 445 

McLeod,  Rev.  Dr.  Norman      ...  502 

Mediasval  hymns 43 

Medley,  S 487 

Melancthon,  P 92 

Mentz  Cathedral 186 

Mercer,  Margaret 431 


pack 

Methodist  conference 335 

minister 30S,  323 

Michel  Angelo 200 

Miles,  Mrs.  S.  A 463- 

Miller,  J 99i  290 

Mills,  E 498 

Milman,  Dean  H.  H 400 

Milnes,  R.  M 419 

Milton,  J 254 

Moir,  D.  M 402 

Monod,  Rev.  Dr 518 

Monsell,  Rev.  Dr 448 

Montgomery,  J 369 

Moore,  M.  E 519 

,  T 383 

Moravian  Brethren 102 

More,  Mrs.  H 354 

,  M.  C 537 

Mote,  E 497 

Mothers,  influence  of 299 

Motherwell,  W 407 

Muhlenburg,  Rev.  Dr 457 

Muloch,  Miss 423 

Nairm,  Baroness     ........  520 

Napoleon  1 4S2 

Navarre,  Queen  of 194 

Neale,  Rev.  J.  M 432 

Neander,  J 112 

,  J.  A.  W "5.  "7 

Nelson,  C.  A 534 

Neumark,  G 178 

Newman,  Rev.  Dr 444 

Newton,  Rev.  J 341 

Nicene  Creed,  the 25 

Nicolai,  Dr.  P 109 

Kiebuhr,  B.  G 184 

Noel,  Rev.  G  T 496 

Norris  of  Bermerton 247 

Novalis,  F.  von 169 

Olivers,  T 328 

Olney  Hymns,  the 341 

O  mother  dear,  Jerusalem     ....  75 

Oscar,  King  of  Sweden 183 

Oxford,  city  of 333 

Pai„  Krishna 349.  495 

Palmer,  Rev.  Ray 454 

Parr,  Hamet 439 

Peabody,  Rev.  O.  W.  B 524 


INDEX    OF    NAMES. 


573 


PAGE 

Perkins,  J.  H 465 

Perronet,  Rev.  E 462 

Peter  the  Hermit 66 

the  Venerable 64 

Petofi,  S 213 

Petrarch,  F i97 

Phelps,  Elizabeth  Stuart 514 

Phile,  M 32 

Pierce,  Dr.  H.  N 5°4 

Pise,  Dr.  C.  C 4S9 

Poetry,  birthplace  of 11 

PoUok,  R 406,  408 

Pope,  A 2S9 

Porter.  Professor 16S,  171 

Power,  P.  B. 272 

Praise,  invocation  to 271 

Prayer,  power  of 432 

Prentiss,  Mrs.  E.  P 500,  549 

Preston,  Mrs.  M.  J 546 

Procter,  A.  A 418 

,  B.  W 416 

Protestant,  origin  of  name     ....  91 

union 122 

Prudentius 37 

Psalms,  the 14 

Putnam,  Rev.  Dr 506 

QuARLES,  F 238 

Rabanus   Maurus 46,  61 

Raleigh,  Sir  W 223 

Rambach,  J.  J 164 

Randolph,  A.  D.  F 476 

,  T 231 

Reed,  Professor 395 

,  Rev.  A 389 

Reformation,  the 83 

Responsive  chanting 34 

Reynolds,  Dr 105 

Rhyme-Bible 1S7 

Richards,  Prof.  W.  C.       .     .     .       30S,  516 

Richardson,  C.  F 556 

Ringwaldt 107 

Robertson,  Rev.  Dr 363 

Robinson,  Rev.  Robert 349 

Rock  of  Ages 352 

Romaine,  Rev.  W 335 

Rosegarten in 

Rosenkranz,  Baron  von 178 

Rossetti,  Christina 486,  553 

Rothe 149 


page 

Ruckert,  F 171 

Ryland,  Rev.  J 356 

Sachs,  H 96,  100,  102 

Saint  George  and  dragon 46 

Sandwich-Islands  hymn 215 

Sandys,  G •.  232 

Sangster,  Mrs.  M.  E 509 

Savonarola,  J 87,  199 

Saxe  Holm 513 

SchafF,  P 69,  109 

Schiller,  J.  C.  F iS7 

Schmolke,  B 139 

Scott,  Sir  W 360 

Scottish  Sabbath 359 

Scudder,  Eliza 514 

Seagrave,  R 293 

Sears,  E.  H 447 

Sedgwick,  D 273 

Seidl 151 

Selnecker,  N loi 

Sermon,  long 338 

,  Saxon 67 

Sewell,  Harriet  W 549 

Shakspeare,  W 228 

Shepherd,  Rev.  J 396 

Shipton,  Anna 469 

Shirley,  J 253 

,  Rev.  W 305 

Sidney,  Sir  P 225 

Sleeping  in  church 338 

Smart,  C 303 

Smith,  Horace 386 

,  Mrs.  G.  N S30 

,  Mrs.  M.  R S43 

,  Mrs.  S.  H SS4 

-,  S.  F 446 

Song,  magic  of 436 

Southey,  Mrs 379 

,  R 378 

Southwell,  R 224 

Spaulding,  Louise  B 510 

Spenser,  E 221 

Speratus,  P 102 

Spitta 169 

Stabat  Mater 72 

Staupitz,  Dr 89 

Steele,  Anne 340,  375 

,  R 290 

Stennet,  Dr.  J 494 

,  Dr.  S 493 


574 


INDEX    OF    NAMES. 


PACE 

Stephen  of  St.  Sabbas 31 

Stenihold  and  Hopkins 275 

Stoke  Pogis  Church 307 

Stone,  Mary  K   A 50S 

,  Rev.  \V.  T 526 

Stowe,  Mrs   H.  B 464 

Stowell,  H 461 

Sunday  School  Times 552 

Swedish  hymns iSo 

Swift,  Dean 338 

Synesius  of  Cyrene 26 

Tasso,  T 197 

Tate  and  Brady 275 

Taylor,  Georgiana  M 541 

,  Isaac II,  81 

,  Jeremy 251 

.  J-  K 490 

Te  Deum  laadaraus 32 

Temperance 338 

Tennyson,  Alfred 420 

Tersanctus 32 

Tersteegen 159,  161 

Tetzel  outwitted 86 

Thaxter,  Mrs.  Celia s'S 

Theoclistus 29 

Theodulph  of  Orleans 1S7 

Thirty  years'  war 122,  127 

Thomas  k  Kempis 65 

of  Celano 6S 

Thomson,  James 294 

Toplady,  A 35° 

Townsend,  E.  W 459 

Trench,  Archbishop     .      122,  141,  425,  484 

Trotznou 100 

Tuckernian,  H.  C 4S2 

,  H.  T 460 

Turner,  D 33^ 

Uhland,  L 162 

Ulrich.  Duke 13& 

Uniformity  of  convent  life     ....  77 

Universal  Prayer,  by  Pope   ....  292 

V.AUGHAN,  Henry 277 

Vega,  C.  Lope  de 204 


PAGE 

Veni,  Creator  Spiritus 46 

Virgin,  worship  of  the 77 

Vittoria  Colonna 203 

Vondel,  J.  van  den 185 

Wallenstein 123 

Waller,  E 248 

Walton,  Izaak 249 

Warburton,  Bishop 291 

Waring,  Miss  A.  L 470 

Washburn,  Rev.  Dr.  E.  A 526 

Walts,  1 2S3,  2S6,  335 

Weiszel 134 

Welthem,  L.  van 1S5 

Wesley,  C.  and  J 309>  313 

,  S 3>7-323 

West,  Frederick 511 

Wetzel,  F.  G 100 

Wheeler,  Ella 539 

White,  H.  K 3S7 

,  Rev.  J.  B 37S 

Whitefield,  Rev.  G 334,338 

Whitehead,  Rev.  T 501 

Whitney,  Mrs.  A.  D.  T s°7 

Whittier,  J.  G 466 

Wickliffe,  J 100 

Williams,  H.  M 487 

,W 326 

Willis,  N.   P 459 

Willmott,  Rev.  R.  A 222,281 

Wilson,  Prof  J 20,  361 

Winkworth,  Miss  C 98 

Wither,  G 234 

Wordsworth,  Rev.  Dr. 428 

,  W 363,  366 

Woolsey,  Miss  (Susan  Coolidge)  .    .     539 

Wotton,  Sir  H 231,233 

Wreck  of  "  Golden  Mary  "  ....     439 
Wulffer 129 

YouxG,  A a('2 

,  E 287 

Zehn '47 

Zinzendorf,  Count Joo,  147 

Zwingli 94.  97 


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